


A Little Faith

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Group Sex, M/M, Multi, Reibert - Freeform, Tumblr Prompt, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:43:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean is a music snob at a record store; Marco is back in Trost after a nervous breakdown from an Ivy League. After being best friends at bible camp ten years before, they meet each other again. Jean swears a lot. Marco blushes. Reiner and Bertolt encourage Jean while also having fun. This fic has a lot of smut and a lot of feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jean gets pissed that Tori Amos is out of fucking alphabetical order

**Author's Note:**

> This was literally spawned from tumblr prompt: _I know you didn’t really ask for prompts today, but since you did the other day, JeanMarco (+ReiBert?)… 90s AU? Bad hair, worse clothing? Grunge? Goth? Throw in some BDSM? Shhh I don’t even know._
> 
> THANK YOU to:
> 
> Somebodyslight for this [amazing art of Sasha and Mikasa](http://tinyurl.com/qh77cje) from chapter 3!
> 
> Shingekinoboyfriends for drawing [this fantastic strip from chapter 2](http://tinyurl.com/osk88om)!
> 
> Check out these [awesome book covers](http://tinyurl.com/osqt3bd) created by theprophetlemonade who was kind enough to include me. <3
> 
> Have a [playlist!](http://8tracks.com/just-kiss-already/a-little-faith-playlist) Thank you the lovely anon who collected my original haphazard post into this tidy 8tracks version! <3
> 
> Series of companion pieces: [here](http://archiveofourown.org/series/106943).

On the list of things Jean hates—and it’s a pretty long list—people who put records back in incorrect alphabetical order are in the top five.

This applies _especially_ if the band or single is a really rare one, and there’s some chance that a savvy customer can’t find the holy grail of his or her musical tastes.

Jean scowls as he sticks the Tori Amos import single back under “A” rather than “B.” Just because it features BT, does _not_ mean it belongs under “B.” Fucking ridiculous.

He must be mumbling, because Sasha bends one of her headphones away from her ear, letting it rest against the side of her head as she says through the chips she’s munching, “Did someone put something back in the wrong order?”

Jean bristles, but she’s so immersed in what she’s reading where she’s sitting behind the counter that she doesn’t even notice. “You want a chip?” she offers, finally looking up. 

Jean just frowns. 

“You know, you kind of look homicidal when you make that face,” she comments with wide eyes, still chewing.

“Good,” Jean retorts, turning with his arms full of records. “Maybe it’ll stop morons from fucking up my record order.”

“I can’t believe you still listen to vinyl,” Sasha snorts. “CDs are the wave of the future.”

She flips the headphone back into place and lifts her hand to take a bite of the candy bracelet she’s wearing. She’s got her long hair gathered up messily in a claw clip, and she flips the page of the magazine she’s reading.

Jean heaves a sigh and walks over the counter to deposit the remaining pile of records onto the top.

“Is that this month’s 'Rolling Stone?'” he asks curiously.

Sasha takes her headphones off again and lets them sit around her neck. “Yeah. You want?”

“Yeah. I wanted to read that article about Radiohead. I hear they’re going in a more electronic direction.”

Sasha makes a dismissive _”pfft”_ sound and rolls her eyes. “I didn’t peg you for techno, Jean.”

“It’s not _techno,_ ” Jean says, lifting his nose self-righteously. “Haven’t you ever listened to Pink Floyd?”

“Um, no,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes. “My boyfriend tried to get me into that, but I don’t know... it’s just me and Alanis, you know?”

“Fair enough,” Jean replies, leaning his head in his hand against the counter. “Except that song ‘Ironic.’ What the hell is that? None of those lyrics are actually ironic.”

“It’s people like you,” Sasha says with a raised eyebrow, pointing at Jean, “who ruin the world.”

Jean snorts and grabs the 'Rolling Stone' out from under her hands nimbly.

“Hey!” she cries. “I was reading that!”

“Well, since you don’t care about Brit techno shit, I’ll just take that one article.” He flips to the right page and rips out the Radiohead article. Jean also thinks that Thom Yorke is hot, even with the wonky eye.

“Ugh, fine,” Sasha says, taking the magazine back when Jean hands it back to her.

Jean folds the article in half and slips it into his pocket for later, then throws himself dramatically against the counter top.

“I fucking _hate_ closing shift,” he mopes, running a hand through his hair. “There’s always some douche who walks in, like, ten minutes before we close.”

Sasha readjusts herself on the stool and shrugs. “Whatever. I’m good as long as I don’t run out of candy. Also, your roots are growing back, just FYI.” 

She takes another bite from the bracelet on her wrist, and goes back to reading the magazine.

When Jean had first met Sasha, he had thought she was diabetic. (She’s not.) Then, he’d thought she was a candy raver. (She’s not.)

She just _really_ likes eating—everything, always. Jean still isn’t sure where it goes, though.

The record store is in pristine condition—mainly because it’s Jean and Sasha closing—and everything is in order.

“I wish we never even had to open it,” Jean says dreamily, looking at his watch. Only ten minutes to nine. “It should be like a public library, where you can just come and get all the music you want. Only we wouldn’t have any Top 40 crap.”

“So, you’d basically,” Sasha says without missing a beat, crunching on another bite of her candy bracelet, “feed your own propagandist snobbery to the masses.”

Jean straightens to look at her in surprise, and she starts laughing. “I’m taking poli-sci this semester.” She rolls her eyes and huffs. “ _So_ boring. Although you might like it... are you going to college?”

Jean can still hear Alanis Morissette wailing through Sasha’s headphones as he goes to reply, and then the obnoxious buzzer above the doors screeches.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” he grumbles under his breath, straightening.

“I’ll go,” Sasha says, hopping off the stool and pausing her Discman. “Otherwise, you’ll get us fired.”

“Alright, whatever,” he retorts. “Just remember, it’s ten minutes until we can _go_. Just get rid of the asshole.”

She laughs a little. “Done,” she says, nodding in solidarity as she walks away toward the front door. 

Jean hops up on Sasha’s vacated stool and flips through the new 'Rolling Stone.' There are some interesting things in there besides Radiohead, and he makes a note to steal it back from Sasha on his break.

The store soundtrack loop is still playing, and Jean reaches underneath the counter to shut it off to send a clear message to the douche who decided to come into the store ten minutes before it’s closing.

“Um, Jean?” Sasha says, reappearing with a confused look on her face.

“Yeah?” he replies. “Did you get rid of—”

“This guy says he’s looking for you.”

Jean’s eyes widen. “Oh,” he replies in surprise. “Uh, who is it?” 

Sasha swallows hard and cocks her head to the side. “Well, first he asked for you,” she said, “and then he asked where the Top 40 section was, and _then,_ he apologized like six times because he thought we closed at ten.”

Good Christ.

“Um,” Jean says, “okay, whatever. I’ll talk to him. Just go lock the door because fuck the next five minutes, I want to get out of here on time.”

“He’s over browsing the Top 40 section,” Sasha says, her eyes wide. “I’ll go lock the door. Uh, friend of yours?”

Jean rolls his eyes and groans. “I have no idea. Ugh, let’s just get the fuck out of here. I’ll deal with him, and then we can go.” 

Sasha nods enthusiastically. “Cool,” she says. “I’m meeting Connie at that bar that just opened. Come with?”

Jean makes a face and shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “I should probably go home.”

“Oh, okay,” she replies with a shrug. “It’ll be fun, but whatever.”

She takes another bite of her elastic bracelet and heads off to the front door to lock up.

Jean darts a look around and finally spots a tall guy browsing Jean’s most hated section of the store.

Jean comes to stand a few feet away next to the black metal section, tapping his foot. He personally made sure that the metal section was adjacent to the Top 40, just to freak out preppy jerk-offs.

“Hey,” he finally says when the guy doesn’t turn around, “were you lookin’ for me?”

His mystery visitor finally turns around, and Jean blinks, because he looks _really_ familiar.

“Uh, hi?” he says, baffled.

“Hi!” Top 40 guy says, smiling. “Jean?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry! I thought you guys closed at ten. My mom told me stop by.”

“Who the hell _are_ you?” Jean blurts out.

“Oh,” the guy says, laughing a little. “Of course you wouldn’t remember me.”

“No offense, man,” Jean says, shrugging, “but I don’t.”

“Marco,” he says, extending his hand, “Marco Bodt.”

Jean’s eyes widen; _now_ he remembers.

_Marco Bodt, freckled face in the summer, jumping off the end of the pier in the lake, chasing fireflies at night..._

“Oh,” Jean exclaims, “yeah, of course. Sorry! I didn’t recognize you.”

He shakes Marco’s hand awkwardly, cocking his head to the side.

Marco is wearing... a striped polo shirt with a giant Abercrombie and Fitch logo on it, khakis, and hi-tops.

Wow. But he does have a firm handshake.

Jean can’t help but suddenly feel like the polar opposite in his ripped jeans, faded Dead Kennedys t-shirt, and scuffed up Vans.

Marco’s got a killer smile, though, and Jean feels unexpectedly at ease.

“I’m back in Trost,” Marco says with a shrug, smiling a little. “I’m just sort of bumming around until I figure out what I’m doing, and my mom mentioned that _your_ mom said you worked here, and to stop by.”

When Jean just stares at him, Marco starts to blush. “Oh no, she didn’t tell you, did she?”

“Um, no,” Jean says awkwardly. It’s not that would have minded, but he’s just taken off guard. “But it’s okay.”

Marco looks sheepish, and laughs nervously.

“Nice shirt,” Jean blurts out, and then curses himself. He’s such a douche bag when he’s nervous.

“Thanks,” Marco says, and Jean realizes he didn’t even get that it was a jab. “Um, I don’t know who Dead Kennedys are, but that’s cool.”

“We’re closing like, now,” Jean says. “So, uh...”

“Oh no, I’ll get out of your way!” Marco immediately replies, his eyebrows raising. “I’m really sorry!”

“No,” Jean says, rolling his eyes. “I was going to say... do you want to go out and get a drink or something? My friend Sasha and her boyfriend just invited me to this bar. I wasn’t going to go, but if you wanna chill for a little while, that’d be cool.”

“Oh, man,” Marco exclaims, and Jean can’t help but be reminded of ‘Leave It to Beaver,’ “that’d be great. Thanks.”

“Uh, no problem.”

“I’m not going to waste your time,” Marco says, glancing over at the wall of mainstream pop hits, “but do you have a recommendation?”

Jean just stares at him.

“I don’t know,” Marco continues, smiling sheepishly, “I know Blink 182 is really big right now, but they’re a little too edgy for me.”

“How about DC Talk,” Jean deadpans. To his surprise, though, Marco actually gets it and laughs.

“I can’t believe you remember that,” he says, still laughing.

“That fucking Christian rock shit,” Jean grumbles. “Do you _know_ how often it haunts me in my dreams? Frequently.”

“Uh, yeah,” Marco agrees, “Bible camp wasn’t exactly all fun and rock music.”

Jean groans a little. “Don’t call it ‘rock music,’ dude. You sound like my grandpa.”

Marco’s eyebrows raise, and when Jean thinks he’s offended, he starts to laugh.

“Thanks for the tip. I’m not exactly ‘hip with the kids.’”

Jean opens his mouth to give Marco a PSA on Things Not To Say, when he realizes it was a joke.

“So,” Jean says conversationally as he goes to cash out, motioning for Marco to follow, “here’s the thing about fucking Blink 182... Wait, you drink, right? Just a beer or two, nothing crazy...”

Marco laughs, nodding, and Sasha looks exceedingly pleased that Jean has finally taken her up on a social invitation as they lock up together.

The bar they end up at is pretty low key, and Jean chooses a table in the back as Sasha goes to find Connie.

Marco settles down, his chair scraping out across the floor as he sits down across from Jean, smiling a little. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” he says enthusiastically. “I haven’t been doing a lot except hanging around my mom’s house and watching _Friends_ re-runs.”

Jean raises his eyebrows, but nods. “You went to private school away when were like, twelve, right?” Marco goes to open his mouth, and Jean interjects. “Oh, and what do you want to drink?”

Unexpectedly, he feels cripplingly impolite. He’s never given a fuck about that before, but somehow with Marco, he wants to make a good impression. Maybe it’s just because he seems so damn _genuinely_ nice.

“Oh!” Marco says, his face becoming contemplative. “Whatever you’re having, I guess?”

“I’m having whiskey on the rocks.”

“Uh...”

“How about a beer?”

Marco smiles a little. “That’d be awesome. Thanks, Jean.”

Jean orders a whiskey on the rocks and a _light_ beer for Marco. The bartop itself made of some sort of stone, and it’s got all kinds of ridiculous, fancy gold moulding around the mirror of the back bar.

Jean steals a glance at Marco curiously in the mirror. He’s looking around in fascination, surveying the people and the decor, taking it all in. He has a look of absolute open wonder on his face, as if he’s just stepped into a parallel universe.

He’s still got those freckles that Jean remembers from the summers they went to camp together. Marco was always the kid that was a little taller than everyone else, and helped Jean out when he dove a little too deep into the lake, or went a little too far off the trail in the woods.

He was the kid that was _everyone’s_ friend, always protective, but he always seemed to have a soft spot for Jean.

Jean had told him to go fuck himself their last year there—right around the time that Jean learned that word “fuck”—and Marco had cried. It all started with some kind of argument about the Bible, and Marco had insisted that a true believer needed faith without sight. Jean had pushed him and said he was an idiot, told him to go fuck himself, and the rest is history.

To this day, Jean still feels bad about it.

He grabs Marco’s beer and his own whiskey, pushing the memory away with a frown, and lays down a ten dollar bill. “Thanks,” he mumbles, turning away and making his way back to their table in the corner.

“Here,” he says, pushing the drink across the table at Marco as he sits back down.

“Thanks!” Marco says brightly, smiling. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing,” Jean says with a shrug, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Whatever.” 

The ice rattles, and Marco takes a shy sip of his beer.

Jean realizes he just came off as harsh, and tries to smile. “Um,” he says, “I mean, how about you get the next one?”

That brings the smile back to Marco’s face, and he nods.

“Sounds good.”

“So,” Jean says conversationally, swirling the ice in his glass, “what are you doing back in Trost? I heard you went to some fancy boarding school or something in high school.”

Marco swallows nervously and bites his lip. “Uh, something like that. Well, yeah, I did.”

Jean takes another swallow of his whiskey and waits.

“I got into an Ivy League school,” he continues haltingly, “but I dropped out.”

“Sasha’s always complaining about her poli-sci class, so I figure college is kinda boring,” Jean says, raising an eyebrow. “But that sucks to blow an Ivy League.”

“Nervous breakdown,” Marco says with a shrug, and lowers his eyes to the table, hiding behind his beer bottle. “I mean, that’s what they called it.”

“Oh,” Jean says, feeling like a world-class tool. “Um, sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s okay,” Marco says, his voice full of forced cheer. “I mean, who does that, right?”

“Well, lots of people, I guess,” Jean says with a shrug. “If it’s too much pressure, anyone would crack. I figure play it safe as long as your life’s not fucked up.”

Marco blinks at him and cocks his head to the side. “Oh,” he says, as if he’s not sure how to respond. “Um, well, to be honest, no one’s ever actually said that to me before.”

Jean grins at him and rests his head in his hand. “My life sucked until I got this job at the record store,” he says, feeling talkative. “I like music, I get paid, and I can live comfortably. What else is there? I don’t want to deal with extra bullshit.”

Marco smiles a little. “Yeah, that’s not a bad philosophy.”

“It’s the _best_ fucking philosophy. Now drink up, Bodt.” 

Jean smiles at him, taking a long gulp of his whiskey, enjoying the way it burns down his throat. He has to admit that they must make a weird pair to any bystanders—Jean there in his ratty jeans and band t-shirt, and Marco, in his preppy ensemble.

“So, uh, what’s with the wholesome look?” Jean asks.

“Wholesome?” Marco asks in surprise.

“You know,” Jean continues, “the whole preppy look.”

“I thought these were just clothes,” Marco replies with raised eyebrows, looking down at his outfit. “Uh, you’re the one who’s dressed like you’re going to a fashion show.”

“A _fashion_ show?!” Jean exclaims, laughing. “I wouldn’t be caught dead at some poseur shit like that.”

“You look like you belong in a magazine. And your hair especially.”

Jean pokes Marco in his polo-shirted arm. “You gotta understand something _really_ important. Forget your clothes... but fuck Blink 182, okay? They suck. Like, they suck so hard that a fucking sinkhole in Florida couldn’t suck harder.”

“Um, wow.”

“It’s true.”

“I’m not going to tell you what else I listen to,” Marco says cautiously, straightening his striped polo shirt self-consciously.

Jean laughs. “You ever heard of Radiohead?”

“Um, no, but I like what’s on the _radio_. So...”

“Oh my god, are you serious right now?”

“Yes... ?”

“Do you want another beer while I explain the virtues of all the music that doesn’t suck that I’m going to give you tomorrow?”

Marco grins, looking eager. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay, first of all, have you got a record player...?”


	2. Jean claims he doesn't even fucking care about s'mores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean remembers why he and Marco became friends in the first place, regardless of his questionable taste in music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took way longer than I thought it would! Very busy with work. D:
> 
> I hope this is in character! I have an elaborate plan about why Jean's approach to life in this fic mirrors his approach in SNK canon, so hopefully it works. XD
> 
>  **Concrit is MUCH appreciated!** This is the first AU I've actually written more than a ficlet/drabble for, so I want to know how I'm doing. XD
> 
>  
> 
> ~~Next chapter commences the explicit rating which is all Bertolt and Reiner's fault. Please stay tuned if you've enjoyed it thus far...~~ [Update: Okay, not until at least after Chapter 3.]

“You wanna grab lunch?” Jean asks, looking up from the register toward Marco where he’s perusing CDs in the alternative section. He looks mystified as he picks up a Tool album, and when his eyes widen once he spots what’s on the cover, Jean fights the urge to laugh.

Marco has an interview at Abercrombie and Fitch in the mall one parking lot over in the suburban sprawl that they call home, although Jean likes to think of the record store as his own little artistic oasis. 

“Oh, sure!” Marco says enthusiastically, his eyebrows raising before he adds hesitantly, “If you have time.”

He’s stopped by the record store to see Jean a few times since they first went out to the bar. The first was because Jean had prepared a long and extensive playlist for him that was spread across two different CDs, painstakingly labeled with an accompanying sheet where he’d written out the musicians in each band, listed alphabetically by last name, and indicating what instrument they played. 

Marco, to say the least, had been impressed; or at least that’s how Jean had interpreted the surprised expression on his face.

Then, Jean had insisted on continuing Marco’s musical education by taking him to a show at a local indie venue. Marco had mostly just looked nervous and refrained from hitting up the bar, but afterwards, he’d been able to at least offer his thoughts. Jean realized at that moment that Marco was one of the only people who’d ever actually put up with his incessant chattering about music, and even offered some input and genuine interest.

Now, Marco makes it a point to stop by and say hello if he’s nearby.

“Yeah, I go on break in a sec,” Jean says, closing the inventory list he’s been working on and placing it inside the drawer under the counter. He grabs the mic that’s connected to the loudspeaker, and it makes a high-pitched whine as Jean tilts it toward his mouth. “Braus! It’s my turn to eat. I’m leaving.”

Marco’s eyes are wide and Jean laughs, giving a lazy, sideways grin as he sets the mic back down in its stand. He’s gone full grunge today, replete with a pea-green cardigan, a Nirvana t-shirt, and a pair of ripped jeans with his Doc Martens. 

“Jean’s wearing his sad bastard uniform!” Sasha exclaims delightedly with a big smile as she skips out from the back room and up to the register. “I love it!”

Jean never knows whether Sasha is being serious or not, so he just shrugs. “Marco, do I look like a sad bastard?”

“Um,” Marco says awkwardly, looking at Jean’s outfit, “I don’t think so. Although your hair looks really... blond.”

“You looked good with the roots,” Sasha says, tilting her head to the side to study Jean’s haircut. “Cool it with the bleach, though. You could also just shave it like Connie.”

Jean looks at Marco and rolls his eyes, and Marco just swallows, obviously shy. But after a moment, he smiles a little.

“Speaking of sad bastard music,” Jean adds self-deprecatingly as he turns toward Marco, “did you get through any of that Compilation of Necessary Music In Your Life I gave you?”

“Most of it, yeah,” he replies, rubbing the back of his head and smiling a little. “I liked it.” 

Jean takes a moment to study Marco. He has the doofiest haircut—dark brown hair parted straight down the middle—and all those freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. Today, he’s wearing a variation of his preppy uniform for the interview underneath his brown leather jacket—an actual tie and shirt tucked into pressed khaki slacks (Jean hasn’t used the word “slacks” since the last time he talked to an elderly relative) and loafers.

Marco is never someone Jean would have seen himself hanging out with, but the more time they spend together, the more Jean remembers why they were such good friends in Bible camp. 

“I actually found something I, uh, want to buy, I think,” Marco adds after a moment. Jean grins widely and strides over to clap him on the shoulder.

“Awesome!” he exclaims. “You can use my store discount. What is it?”

It’s then that Jean realizes Marco’s been holding something bigger than a CD the entire time, and he’s sporting a sheepish expression.

“Oh, man, and you’re even getting it on vinyl?” Jean asks excitedly, his enthusiasm mounting exponentially with every passing moment. “That’s _perfect_. Fuck CDs. Everything should be on vinyl because it just _sounds_ better.” 

He strides out from behind the counter to examine Marco’s selection, but then frowns. “Oh, wait, I forgot my jacket. It’s in the back. I’ll be right back—just have Sasha ring it up with my discount,” he says, turning to walk into the back break room, “and then you can show me!”

Jean runs into the back to get his army jacket, but by the time he returns, the record is already in a bag. Sasha is actually chewing on her candy bracelets rather nervously with wide eyes, and she just stares at Jean.

“Um,” Jean says, raising his eyebrow at her strange look, “I’ll be back in like, an hour. See ya.”

She just nods, still chewing, and he and Marco leave the store.

It’s a crisp, autumn day out as they walk outside, and the sky is pleasantly blue and clear.

“So what’s a good place to eat?” Marco asks curiously.

“Well,” Jean says, burrowing his hands into his pockets and shivering a little, “there’s a pretty decent Chinese place around the corner, and we don’t have to drive there.”

“That’d be cool,” Marco says, smiling. The October sun highlights his freckles and Jean can’t help but smile, too. It’s infectious.

“So,” Jean starts in again, “what record did you get?”

“Um, honestly...” Marco clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’m not sure you want to know. It’s from your most ‘hated section.’”

Jean cocks his head to the side in curiosity as they walk side by side past the storefronts. “My most... oh _no_...” Jean groans. “Marco, why do you do these things? Well, who is it?”

Marco finally gives up trying to hide whatever his illicit chart-topping music purchase was and pulls the record out of the bag. 

Jean actually stops and turns to face Marco, his mouth hanging open.

“Are you serious right now?” he asks flatly, staring at the shrink-wrapped record. “You _know_ this shit is marketed to teenage girls and fabulous gay men, right?”

“I think that one song by Britney Spears is catchy,” Marco murmurs, blushing and slipping the record back inside the bag.

“I can’t believe you just used my store discount for that.”

Marco laughs a little. “You wouldn’t have let me use it if you knew what I was buying?”

Jean raises an eyebrow and looks over at Marco. His breath is white in the air as they walk, and he zips up his jacket with a shiver. 

“Maybe,” Jean says finally.

“Well, I’m not a teenage girl or gay, so...”

“I’m bi,” Jean says as they reach the entrance to the Chinese food place, “so I can offer up my scorn from both an offended music connoisseur and being half-gay.

Marco doesn’t seem fazed by Jean’s declaration of bisexuality, although Jean has been vaguely curious in the back of his head what a preppy guy like Marco would think of the fact that Jean doesn’t ride the straight and narrow.

“Uh,” Marco says awkwardly as he opens the door for Jean, “not to be presumptuous, but I have to ask... That’s eyeliner, right?”

Jean blinks, and then laughs a little. “Oh, yeah,” he replies, “sometimes I wear it to work for shits and giggles. I don’t know. I think it looks cool.”

“It looks good,” Marco says with a shrug, turning his eyes to look at the takeout menu taped to the wall. “You look kind of like Britney Spears.”

Jean pauses and blinks. 

“Did you just make a joke?”

Judging from the endearing way that half of Marco’s mouth curves to form a sly little smile, the answer is yes.

Before Marco can actually answer, though, the host greets them. “Two?”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, still staring at Marco. The bastard is giving him an outright playful grin now as they follow the host to their table. 

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes; Marco is full of surprises.

The place is generic, but Jean really digs the food. It’s just a collection of small tables without any windows, dotted with lots of bamboo plants. However, it also has surprisingly amazing food for its generic appearance, and it’s not expensive. They sit down with their menus, and Jean doesn’t even bother opening his since he already knows what he wants. He gets takeout from here relatively frequently, but he usually eats it by himself.

Marco shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the back of the chair before settling down to open his menu. Without the jacket, Jean realizes that Marco’s even more dressed up than he first thought, and if he’s not mistaken, there’s a faint scent of actual cologne in the air.

Before Jean can comment, the waiter approaches them for drink orders. Jean orders green tea and Marco sticks with water, and then Jean continues to study him across the table with interest.

“So,” he says, tearing open his chopsticks idly as Marco neatly closes the menu and puts it in front of him, “big interview?”

Marco bites his lip and looks down at the table, tracing the pattern of the red dragon printed on the cheap, paper placemat. “Yeah, uh, my mom made me.”

“Wow, Marco, way to be 12 again.”

Marco laughs softly, but then the grin fades from Jean’s face when there’s an extended silence.

“Um, I was just kidding,” Jean finally adds awkwardly.

Marco looks up quickly, his eyes widening. “Oh no, you didn’t offend me,” he says quickly. “It’s just... my mother wants me to do something—like get a job—because she keeps saying she’s worried about me.”

He shrugs a little, and suddenly, Jean feels worried, too. It feels almost strange, considering they’ve just re-met each other, but it also seems very natural.

“I mean,” Marco says with a shrug, “she’s right. I cried about Rachel and Ross last night—I ‘m pretty sure that’s a new low.”

“Who are Rachel and Ross?” Jean asks curiously, wondering if they’re some of Marco’s preppy college friends.

That actually gets an unintended laugh out of Marco, and he smiles a little; Jean likes the way he looks when he smiles, because unlike most people, it’s completely genuine.

“Characters on ‘Friends,’ the TV show...” he trails off with a raised eyebrow, and Jean’s eyes widen.

“Good god,” Jean finally blurts out. “That’s pretty bad.”

Jean swears he can feel his own foot kick him in the mouth as the waiter interrupts; he’s almost tempted to order alcohol, even though he’s on shift and it’s noon.

Instead, they both order lo mein lunch specials, and then Jean cringes once the waiter walks away.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That’s okay,” Marco replies, and he doesn’t even look offended. In fact, he looks amused, if anything.

A memory suddenly floats to the surface of Jean’s mind as he meets Marco’s dark eyes.

_“You know, your freckles look kinda like zits, Marco,” Jean said, crossing his arms over his chest authoritatively where they were standing on the lake dock. “You got too many.”_

_Marco’s freckles always showed up in the summer the more time he spent outside._

_Suddenly, a kid that Jean had never liked shoved past him and grabbed Marco’s hand. “C’mon, Marco. Jean’s a jerk and you don’t have to hang around him. He’s not even Christian, anyway.”_

_Marco had been dragged away with wide eyes, looking as if he hadn’t known what to do._

_Jean had just snorted and sat down on the dock to stare into the water alone, watching the reflection of the clouds as they slowly passed overhead. He remembered thinking how he didn’t need Marco—that Marco was an ugly jerk._

_And then he’d cried for an hour and kicked at the water angrily, until he ran out of tears and energy._

_Later, when it was time for the nightly campfire and s’mores, Jean had sat by himself away from the rest of the other kids on a log; until Marco had plunked down next to him and offered him a s’more._

_“You’re not a jerk, Jean,” he’d said, smiling around a mouth full of marshmallow and chocolate. “You’re my best friend.”_

Marco is still giving Jean s’mores; the difference is that now, Jean knows he really is a jerk sometimes.

“Sorry,” he repeats as Marco continues to stare at him expectantly, “what I mean is that you should do something to make yourself happy.”

“Happy?” Marco asks curiously, tilting his head to the side.

“Yeah, I dunno...” Jean ventures, making a face. “Weren’t you a law student? Couldn’t you get a job doing something with that? I mean, you were in an Ivy League, right?”

Marco shrugs, and before he can answer, their food comes. It smells delicious, and Jean is so hungry that, for the moment, he’s distracted from Marco’s silence as he inhales his lo mein and egg roll.

“Wow,” Marco comments, swallowing politely first, “this is _really_ good.” He seems as distracted by the food as Jean, and they eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

Jean takes a deep, sated breath when he plows through three quarters of his lo mein, and blinks sleepily.

“I love Chinese food,” he says, closing his eyes and smiling happily. He picks up the green tea and takes a sip, and everything seems blissful.

Marco smiles at him from the across the table and nods in agreement, putting his chopsticks down.

“Thanks for taking me here. This is great.”

“Anytime!” Jean exclaims. “I don’t even usually go out on my lunch break. Just end up sitting in the back, reading ‘Rolling Stone’ and eating takeout or leftovers.” He raises an eyebrow. “Well... leftovers I bring from home, since any takeout leftovers, Sasha eats within five minutes of them being in the store fridge.”

Marco laughs a little at that and rests his head in his hand.

“I’m, um...” he says suddenly, and Jean looks at him in surprise as Marco suddenly clamps his mouth shut. He looks like he was about to say something, but then thought better of it. 

“You’re what?” Jean prompts, waiting for him to continue.

“Oh, nothing,” Marco replies, laughing nervously as he stares down at the table again, “just thinking.”

“ _What?_ ” Jean urges. “It drives me insane when people start to say something and then never finish.”

Marco shrugs a little and bites his lip, and suddenly, Jean has the urge to reach out and take his hand; he doesn’t, but there’s some strange current of protectiveness that he’s been feeling over Marco since they re-met. Maybe it’s all the memories catching up with him now, and the realization of how much Marco took care of him when they were kids.

“I’m nervous about this interview,” Marco says softly. There’s a blush rising in his cheeks, and he fidgets with his tie. “To answer your question before, yeah, I was a law student. And if I ever want to do anything with law, I’ll need a degree.”

Jean drains his green tea and puts the cup down, shaking his head sagely as he makes a disapproving noise. “Retail _sucks_ , man,” he states emphatically. “I mean, unless you like it somehow—as in you work somewhere you like. I love working in a record store, because my job is solid and secure. And I like music, but if you can get something better than clothing retail, do it.”

Marco shrugs slightly and say simply, “I just want to go to work, go home, and not think about _justice_ for five minutes.” 

Jean knew Marco was really fucked up over whatever made him drop out of school, but to have someone like _Marco_ sound so defeated is uncanny.

“Well,” Jean replies carefully, deciding to change the subject, “Fuck going home. There’s a show this Friday and you’re coming with me.”

Marco studies Jean for a moment; he’s been pretty receptive to hanging out so far, but suddenly, Jean starts to wonder if Marco is hanging out with anyone else at all. 

“Think of it as penance for Britney Spears,” he adds to sweeten the deal, smiling a little.

Marco finally groans and covers his face with both hands. “Fine,” he agrees.

“Cool,” Jean says, smiling and leaning back in his chair. “Just don’t wear that outfit.”

“I’m wearing this outfit if you’re wearing that eyeliner.”

“Did you press those _slacks_ yourself?”

Marco peeks out from behind his hand, and Jean laughs out loud now.

They get the check, and Marco insists on paying for their meal, thanking Jean for showing him the restaurant.

Marco goes his own separate way to start the walk over to the mall, and Jean finishes up his afternoon shift at the store. He can barely even focus on the tasks at hand, though, because he’s too busy wondering how Marco’s interview went. For some reason, he actually starts to worry about it, wondering if Marco will get even more discouraged if they don’t hire him.

Finally, the end of the day arrives, and Jean can’t wait to run home and call Marco to get an update. He even leaves Sasha to lock up—technically she’s a manager, although usually Jean does it.

When Jean steps outside the record store, the sky is rainy and dark; it’s October, and the days have become very short.

He walks briskly to his car—an old two-door black Ford Mustang inherited from a dead relative. It’s a true 1980s muscle car, and there’s something so horribly cheesy about it that Jean actually likes driving it. That, and its days of former gym rat glory are gone anyway, given that it’s rusty in more than a few places, and sometimes it stalls if it’s really cold outside.

It’s so wet and chilly that he’s shivering as he unlocks the door and climbs in, praying that it will start—it does—and then he blasts the heat even though all that comes out is cold air.

Jean is not known for his patience.

He would usually wait for it to warm up before starting the drive, but since he wants to find out what happened with Marco as soon as possible, he buttons his army jacket all the way to the neck and pulls out of his parking spot.

However, just as he’s about to exit the parking lot and has his turn signal on, he squints.

There’s a bus stop right in front of the strip mall where the record store is, and it appears someone very familiar is sitting underneath the shelter.

Jean reverses and circles around to pull up next to it, and rolls down the window.

“I was just going to call you,” he shouts out the passenger side window.

Marco’s head snaps up where he’s sitting with his hands burrowed into the pockets of his leather jacket, and he looks surprised.

“Get in!” Jean says, motioning for Marco to approach the car. He leans over to push the door open, and in the interim, throw a stack of empty jewel cases into the back seat to make room for Marco.

Marco doesn’t hesitate, and jogs through the rain over to hop in and slam the door shut.

“What are you still doing here?” Jean asks in surprise, turning on the windshield wipers as the rain suddenly gets heavier.

“Oh, they wanted me to complete a full shift,” Marco says, shivering a little. “Just to test me out.”

“Bastards. They probably want free labor,” Jean grumbles.

“Well,” Marco says with a shrug, “they said they’d call me.” He looks over at Jean out of the corner of his eye, and then down at the floor. “You didn’t have to stop,” he says, “I can wait for the bus.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jean snaps, but he gives Marco a friendly swat on the arm to make it clear he’s joking this time.

“I’m pretty far out of your way,” Marco adds with a cringe as Jean pulls out of the parking lot.

“I’ve never watched ‘Friends,’” Jean says suddenly once they’re on the road. The rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers is rather soothing, and the heater is finally starting to work. “You want to hang out and cry about Ross and Rachel for a little while?”

That gets a real laugh out of Marco, but he sounds surprised at Jean’s suggestion. “I’m sure my mom would like to see you. She’s really happy we’ve been hanging out.”

“Your mom hates me,” Jean replies flatly.

Marco’s mother has hated Jean since they met as Bible camp, and called him a “bad influence.” 

“She doesn’t hate you,” Marco says carefully, slouching further down in his seat with his hands shoved into his pockets, “she just thinks you’re an atheist and possibly going to hell.”

“I am an atheist, and hell doesn’t exist.”

“Just tell her you want to watch ‘Friends’ with me, and she’ll love you.”

“For you, Marco,” Jean says, giving him a friendly, sideways grin as he keeps his eyes on the road, “I’ll tell your mother that I teach Sunday school.”

Marco snorts, but doesn’t argue any further.

“So tell me what happened at your interview with the preppy cult...” 

Marco gets the job, and Jean waits for him every day to give him a ride home.


	3. Jean is definitely not about to fucking cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean thinks Ross is a schmuck, learns of a new band he's never heard of, and almost crashes his car.

“Man,” Jean groans, “why the fuck can’t Ross just admit he has a giant boner for Rachel and that it’s never going to change?”

Marco is laughing where he’s sitting across from Jean on the worn green couch, a six pack settled between them.

“I can’t believe you’ve actually watched this show with me for this long,” Marco replies, looking at Jean in disbelief with raised eyebrows.

Jean grins at him, moving to grab a second beer from the six pack, but he hesitates at the sharp sound of footsteps descending the wooden stairs into the refinished basement.

Marco’s eyes widen and the smile vanishes, his face becoming serious as he grabs Jean’s green army jacket from the back of the couch and throws it over the six pack.

“Marco.”

Marco’s stepfather has never _asked_ questions; he says everything like a statement or an order. Jean tries not to cringe at the way Marco’s back immediately straightens and his shoulders tense, sticking his chin out as Keith Shadis appears at the foot of the stairs.

Jean always thought that Mr. Shadis was the biggest douche on the face of the Earth, even when he was younger. There was something about that imposing figure that made Marco look like he was about to stand at attention and salute. That probably would’ve made Shadis happy, though, considering he was an army man—an ex-Marine, to be exact, with dark, haunted eyes, and a perpetual scowl.

“Marco,” he repeats, standing at the foot of the stairs and peering at Marco with those shadowed eyes.

Marco’s eyebrows raise, and even Jean surreptitiously pulls his leg out from under him and places both feet on the ground, straightening his posture.

“Yes, sir?” he asks. 

“Your mother would like you up for dinner in an hour.”

“Okay,” Marco replies, giving a curt nod. “Thank you.”

Shadis just returns the nod, and turns back around to retreat back up the stairs.

Jean lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and looks at Marco.

“He hasn’t changed at _all,_ ” he says, making a face. Shadis gets home late, and it’s actually the first time Jean’s seen him, even though he’s been going over to Marco’s house almost every night after work to watch mindless television and hang out in the refinished basement that’s also doubling as Marco’s bedroom.

In their younger years, they’d hung out in this same basement every Sunday after morning services. Their parents would eat pound cake and drink coffee upstairs, chatting about coupons and the new grocery store opening down the block.

It’s a simple room—concrete floor with a thin area rug covering it, fake wood paneling along the walls, and lots of hard surfaces perfect for two young boys to roughhouse.

Of course, there hadn’t actually been much roughhousing, since Jean preferred to listen to smuggled cassette tapes on the boom-box, and Marco would just sit and grin, bobbing his head along to Ace of Base.

It took a few years for Jean to realize how much Ace of Base sucked, but sometimes—though he wouldn’t admit it even upon pain of death—he still listens to that tape for nostalgic reasons.

He pulls his leg back up under him, the frayed tan corduroy pants threatening to finally rip at the knee, and raises an eyebrow at Marco.

“So,” Jean says, reaching under the green jacket for the beer he’d been interrupted in retrieving, “you gonna get wasted before your family dinner?”

That earns an outright laugh out of Marco that makes his freckles bunch up, and he rolls his eyes. 

“You’re welcome to stay,” he says suddenly with a shrug, looking down at the floor, “if you want.”

The truth is that Jean’s mother is a great cook, but she’d moved out to the other side of the country last year. This has left Jean with a lot of Ramen and a microwave.

“Um,” Jean replies awkwardly, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Okay,” Marco says, his gaze focused pointedly downward. “No problem.”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t _want_ to,” Jean says, his eyes widening. “I just, uh... the last time I saw your parents before you moved back here was during that meeting that got me kicked out of Bible camp.”

Marco laughs a little at that with an embarrassed shrug. “Well, if you’re worried about that, don’t be. That’s old news. If you really don’t want to stay, though, don’t feel obligated.”

There’s a short silence, and Jean shakes his head. “Well, if it’s okay with you...”

“I’d love it!” Marco exclaims enthusiastically enough that Jean raises his head in surprise.

“Well, all right,” he agrees. “Um... are they going to say prayers over the meal?”

“Probably.”

Jean sighs. “Okay... but afterwards, you have to promise to come back down here and sneak the rest of this six pack with me.”

“Deal,” Marco says, smiling. He holds out his hand, and Jean gives it a firm shake.

Dinner begins as awkwardly as Jean first expected it to, with a prayer that makes them all clasp hands. He’s just glad that he gets Marco and his mother’s, rather than Shadis who looks like all he wants to do is leave the table and take a very long nap to assuage the circles under his eyes.

“Jean,” Marco’s mother says, raising her eyes to look at him warmly, “would you like to say the prayer?”

Jean grimaces, but Marco is staring at him with a nervous expression, so Jean gives in.

"Thank you heavenly father for what we are about to receive, through Christ, our Lord..." Jean cracks one eye open, and finds Marco doing the same. "Amen."

"That was lovely, Jean," Mrs. Shadis says.

"Uh, thanks," Jean replies awkwardly, looking down in embarrassment at the pristine flowered tablecloth and Corel plates. They're the same pattern Jean remembers eating peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches off of when he was 12.

They start to eat, and Jean is conservative with how much food he takes. Marco's parents aren't poor, but they're by no means rich, either. He still remembers the time he left a sandwich crust on his plate, and Mrs. Shadis had given him a stern talking to, quoting the oft-used phrase: “waste not, want not.”

Just as he scoops some string beans onto his plate—he can’t help but almost salivate at the smell—Shadis finally speaks.

“What are you doing these days, Kirschstein?” 

Shadis calls everyone by their last name; he even called Marco “Bodt” until finally Marco’s mother had insisted otherwise.

Jean straightens and keeps his eyes focused pointedly on his plate as they all start to eat. “I work at a music store.”

“You’re employed? That’s a surprise. I thought you’d be in prison by now.”

Jean clears his throat awkwardly with a shrug and takes a bite of string beans. He knew it was coming; although Marco’s mother will play nice, Keith Shadis has always openly hated him.

 _“Keith,”_ Marco’s mother says under her breath. 

Marco brings his fork down forcefully as he spears a string bean and it makes a loud click against the plate; he looks angry, but he’s keeping his mouth shut.

“Sorry, Jean,” he finally says quietly. “Maybe you were right.”

“Right about what?” Shadis demands, looking back and forth between Jean and Marco suspiciously.

“Jean was nervous about staying for dinner,” Marco says, finally looking up and staring at his stepfather with a closed expression, “because he thought he wasn’t wanted.”

“Oh, Jean,” Marco’s mother pipes in with a nervous smile, “that’s not true. And you even said such a lovely little prayer.”

“I teach Sunday school, too,” Jean adds flatly. He has to admit the fact that the way Marco’s mother’s face lights up is kind of funny, and even Marco’s dark expression has transformed into his mouth twitching as he tries not to smile.

“That’s wonderful! I’m sure your mother is so proud.”

“Um, yeah,” Jean says, quickly changing the subject. “She moved out to the West Coast last year.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

“You know what’d whip you right into shape?” Shadis interjects again. “The army. There’s even a recruitment station right down the road.”

Jean opens his mouth to retort with something neutral, when suddenly, Marco’s voice cuts through the conversation.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Marco explodes. His mother gasps, although Jean is relatively sure it’s because Marco just took the Lord’s name in vain. “Will you stop already?”

Even Shadis appears to be surprised at Marco’s anger, and his eyes widen.

“Jean is not joining the army, and he doesn’t teach Sunday school.” He shoots his mother a look, and she just stares at both of them. “He doesn’t believe in god, and neither do I. I haven’t since I was 14!” he adds, his voice rising. “I thought I’d found something to believe in when I went to law school. I thought I could help people, but even _that_ turned out to be a lie.”

They’re all staring at him now as he pushes his chair out roughly and stands up, dropping his fork onto the plate with a boisterous clatter that even makes Jean jump.

“Leave Jean alone, because he’s the _only_ good thing that’s happened to me since I got back here!”

And with that, Marco storms away from the table, stomping away; the back door slams, and they can hear Marco’s footsteps thudding down the back deck, and then it turns quiet stop as he continues into the yard.

“Um,” Jean says awkwardly, pushing his own chair out.

Shadis is mumbling under his breath; unexpectedly, though, Marco’s mother looks up at Jean. She has tears in her eyes, and Jean bites his lip.

“I don’t care if you don’t teach Sunday school,” she says in a hushed voice. “Can you just make sure he’s okay?”

Jean sighs and nods; he remembers viewing Marco’s parents as religious zealot overlords during his phase of teenage rebellion. Now, he realizes that they’re just as lost as he is.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, walking toward the back door to follow Marco.

It doesn’t take long to find him. He’s sitting on the old wooden swing behind the house, staring at the ground and tracing idle circles in the dirt with his sneaker. That swing has been there for at least 15 years, attached by rope to a sturdy tree branch that’s been there even longer.

“Hey,” Jean says quietly. The leaves crackle under his boots as he gets closer, and Marco doesn’t even look up. He sniffles a little, and Jean feels a pang as he realizes that Marco is crying.

“Sorry I made a scene,” he says in a hoarse, quiet voice. 

“That’s okay,” Jean says, coming to stand next to Marco and wrap his hand around the rope of the swing. “Although I think your mom really does think I’m a devil worshipper now.”

That gets a choked laugh, and Jean moves to stand behind him, wrapping both hands around the rope.

“You want a push?”

Marco rubs at his eyes, but he snorts at Jean. “No, thanks.”

“Remember that time that I made you push me to see how high I could go?”

“Yeah, and then you almost broke your leg.” 

Jean laughs, patting Marco on the shoulder. “I think I almost wrapped this swing around that tree branch.” 

Before they can continue their conversation, though, Jean hears a third set of footsteps coming toward them; he knows that gait, and it’s not Marco’s mother.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me,” he growls under his breath. 

“Marco,” Shadis barks, “get back in here. We’re not done eating. You too, Kirschstein, since you insist on being here.”

“In a second,” Jean barks right back; he feels Marco stiffen, but he doesn’t stop Jean. “Can you leave well enough alone for five _minutes_?”

“Do you even know what happened with this kid?” Shadis asks, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do either one of you know what real pressure is like? What the world is really like?”

Jean takes a step forward, his hand still placed protectively on Marco’s shoulder as Marco stares at the ground, curled into himself.

“No,” he replies resolutely. “All I know is that you’re not doing Marco here any fucking favors.”

That drives Shadis back a little, and Jean gets closer to Marco, putting two hands on both his shoulders now. 

“I might be a godless heathen,” he adds, squeezing Marco’s shoulders gently, “but I’m his friend, and that’s all you can believe in today. _Hello..._ It’s not the fucking 19th century. I may not have seen what you’ve seen, but I don’t have to, because I _know_ what I believe in.”

Shadis studies them for a minute, his eyes narrowed, and finally he turns away with a grimace.

“It’s philosophies like that,” he growls, “that got this kid kicked out of school.”

“I _quit_ ,” Marco says suddenly, bristling, his voice uncharacteristically vehement.

“Whatever,” Shadis snorts. “You’re weak. The pressure mounts up, and you bite the dust. Figures.”

And with that charming statement, he walks away, back toward the house.

There’s a short silence, and Jean doesn’t move his hands.

“It wasn’t so much the pressure,” Marco finally whispers, “as that I stopped knowing what I was sacrificing everything for—what I was giving up all my free time and all my energy to achieve. In the end, I watched how corrupt the legal system really is, and how everyone feeds into it. And then, bad things really do happen to innocent people.”

“The world isn’t a fair place, Marco,” Jean replies softly, hoping he doesn’t sound critical. “It’s just not.”

Marco clears his throat noisily, and Jean still doesn’t move his hands.

“When I finally cracked,” he starts quietly, folding his hands in his lap, “I laid in bed for two days straight, and I don’t think I moved the entire time. It felt after a while like my entire body had atrophied. Then I felt like my heart did, too, and I gave up.”

“Marco...” Jean says softly.

It’s then that the feelings finally break free for the first time since Jean’s been holding them at bay—the urge to bend over and hug Marco, kiss his hair and forehead, murmur reassurances into his ear and kiss him there, too. 

Jean manages to restrain himself from doing any of those things, but the emotions coursing through him now are so strong, the sensation makes him dizzy.

“Why didn’t you go to college after high school?” Marco asks suddenly, twisting to look at Jean. “You’re really smart. I know it’s not for everyone, but you seem like you’d actually like it.”

“I didn’t want to,” Jean says with a shrug, dropping his hands. “I got the job I have, and it keeps me at a comfortable standard of living. I don’t want anything else.”

“Oh,” Marco says softly.

“C’mon,” Jean murmurs, brushing his hands over Marco’s shoulders one last time and then drawing away. “Fuck your stepdad. Let’s go finish off that six pack and make fun of Ross for being lame.”

Marco laughs quietly, and he nods after a moment.

“Okay,” he replies, his voice hushed.

“Awesome,” Jean says quietly, offering his hand to Marco to stand up. 

They go back inside, taking the cellar door to avoid Marco's parents, and settle back on the couch. 

Jean presses play on the VCR, but Marco isn't even watching, staring down into his lap where his hands are folded in a white-knuckled grip.

Jean doesn't say anything; just moves the beer onto the floor and slides down to Marco's end of the couch. Marco starts a little as Jean wraps a friendly arm around him and pats his shoulder.

"Fuck that guy," he says simply. Marco sighs, and Jean's heart jumps into his throat when Marco rests his head against Jean's shoulder.

"Is this okay?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," Jean replies in what he hopes is a normal voice, patting Marco's arm again reassuringly."Just try not to think about it, okay?"

"Okay," Marco sighs in a small voice.

Jean keeps his arm around Marco for the duration of the episode and changes the subject. "So, why the hell isn't anyone interested in Phoebe? Duh, she's obviously the hot one."

As Jean hopes, Marco finally laughs earnestly, sounding a little more cheerful. But then he says, very quietly, "I'm really glad we met again."

Jean turns his head to look at Marco in surprise, and it takes absolutely every ounce of will power he has not to close the distance between them and kiss Marco right on the mouth.

Instead, he forces an easy smile onto his face and nods. "Yeah," he agrees, nodding, "me too."

Jean stays for another two episodes until the beer is gone, and then he says goodnight to a sleepy Marco, taking the incriminating bottles with him.

He zips up his jacket against the frigid air as he walks down the gravel driveway to where his car is parked and fumbles with cold fingers to unlock the door.

He sits in the car after it's (thankfully) started to wait for the heat to kick on, and leans forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel, fighting the urge to groan at his own stupidity.

He's got the hots for Bodt, and there's nothing he can do about it. Marco is straight, after all; not to mention preppy and traditional.

It's better to just forget it and move on, and that's exactly what Jean decides to do.

= = =

It's a busy day at the record store—a typical Saturday when all hell breaks loose—and Jean is trying to do five things at once. He finally gets rid of the kid who's too young to be buying the Nine Inch Nails CD with a parental advisory sticker plastered across the front of it (Jean deplores censorship, but it's part of his job), and checks out the remaining line of people. Sasha is otherwise engaged trying to control a group of rampaging children in the soundtrack section—a role from which Jean has been banned ever since he told a ten year old to fuck off after the kid had a tantrum and threw a Barney CD on the floor.

Finally, things quiet down for a few precious minutes, and Jean hurries to straighten up a little.

As he bends over to retrieve a wayward copy of Gravity Kills, a pair of black, shit-kicking combat boots stop to stand on front of him.

"Excuse me," says a quiet, composed voice.

Jean straightens, and promptly loses the ability to speak.

Standing in front of him is the most beautiful girl he's ever seen—grey eyes, silky black hair, and soft features despite the serious look on her face.

"Um," Jean croaks.

Her eyebrows raise slightly and she looks confused.

"Sorry,” he grunts, “Yeah? Can I help you?”

"I'm looking for a specific record," she says, shifting her messenger bag over her shoulder. She’s wearing a short floral print dress with the combat boots with an oversized army jacket over it similar to Jean’s. In fact, Jean thinks about how good _his_ army jacket would look over her shoulders instead, although he also gets the sense she’d kick his ass before accepting a chivalrous gesture.

Nevertheless, Jean feels a surge of confidence since he’s been engaged on his favorite topic and regains his composure quickly, plastering on a cocky grin.

"You came to the right guy," he says with a nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. It makes his chain wallet rattle, and he feels a little bad ass. "And if we don't have it, I can definitely tell you who does. I'm a walking music encyclopedia."

"They're this German metal band," she says in that same calm tone of voice, "called Jaeger. I don't care how far I have to travel—I just need their new album."

Jean keeps the smile on his face, but he’s sure his eye twitches. The one time his extensive musical knowledge could be useful, he doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. He also doesn’t want to admit that someone has just bested him on obscure bands. 

"I don’t think we have it, even though they’re awesome,” he forces his head to nod and hopes he’s convincing. “But let me call a few people I know. I’ve got some connections."

"Thanks," she says simply.

"Uh, do you want to get lunch?" Jean blurts out. Marco is always too busy on the weekend shift to meet up at their favorite Chinese place anyway. "I think you have really pretty hair."

Mikasa's eyes widen, and she takes a strand of her long hair between her fingers to stare at it, as if she doesn’t get a lot of compliments. "Thanks."

"Oh my god!" comes a delighted shriek as Sasha bounds up to them. "You look so cool! What's your name?"

"Mikasa," she says, turning toward Sasha in surprise.

"Your hair is so pretty!" Sasha exclaims. "If you ever want it styled, come find me!"

"Actually, I was going to cut it anyway,” Mikasa replies. "I was on my way to go do that now. I don’t mind if you want to try it, if it’s free. I'm waiting to see if any other stores have the album I'm looking for, anyway."

"Perfect!" Sasha squeals. "Let's go in the back while Jean calls around." 

Jean is left standing there with his mouth practically hanging open as Sasha takes Mikasa's arm and leads her away, chattering about shaving Mikasa's head on one side.

"Want a candy bracelet?"

"Um, sure..." is the last thing Jean hears before the door to the backroom closes.

By the time Jean's made five phone calls, he's developed a newfound hatred for the band Jaeger, since they are the most elusive group ever—and, unfortunately, the key to getting Mikasa to like him.

When she reemerges, half her head is shaved, and the other part is cut at an angle. She's still gorgeous, and Jean can feel the blush traveling up his neck.

"Any luck?" she asks with a hopeful expression.

"Sorry," Jean replies as he hangs up the phone, making a face. "No one has it, but I asked everyone to keep their eye out."

"Jaeger is Mikasa's _life,_ " Sasha exclaims. "She was telling me all about them. Don't worry!" She offers Mikasa a salute. "I'll keep my eye out, too."

Sasha smiles and nods resolutely. "Nice to meet you, Mikasa! Come back soon!"

"Thanks," Mikasa replies, nodding. 

"So, do you want to get some food?” He clears his throat awkwardly, and rubs the back of his head. “Um, I think you're really pretty."

The bell above the door jingles, and Jean doesn't bother to look to see who it is, leaving it to Sasha as he bends forward across the counter slightly with what he hopes is an impressive smile.

"Your hair looks really cool."

"Jean!" The sound of his own name surprises him, and Jean turns to unexpectedly see Marco standing there with a big smile on his face. "I actually got a lunch break today, so..." He trails off as he sees Mikasa standing there, and his eyebrows raise.

"Oh, sorry!" he exclaims. "Am I interrupting something?"

He doesn't even look perturbed, and just shrugs with a sheepish smile; something about his indifference makes Jean feel sick.

"We were going to get lunch," Mikasa says unexpectedly, and Jean just nods.

"Cool!" Marco says, "I'll just grab some takeout and eat back at the mall. See you tonight, Jean. Bye!"

And with that, he just strolls off without a care in the world.

Jean curses internally, and very pointedly ignores the twinge in his chest.

The fact that a girl as gorgeous as Mikasa has agreed to go to lunch with him makes Jean feel good. He's hoping they have musical interests in common... and although unfair, he can't help but think it's also a good distraction from Marco.

However, all Mikasa does during lunch is talk about Jaeger. Nonstop.... and Jean thought he was bad.

"So, are you looking for people?" Mikasa asks as she takes a sip of her pomegranate juice. 

Jean answers silently that he found the person he was looking for a while ago, but then he pushes Marco out of his mind.

"Um, what do you mean?"

"At your store," she explains, her eyes wide. "I need a job, and I figure I’ll have a real shot at finding the Jaeger record I'm searching for if I work in a music store."

"Wow," Jean blurts out, "um, okay."

The store actually _is_ looking for a new employee.

"Okay," he replies with a shrug, "I'll give your name and number to Levi. He's the manager... actually, he might know where to get Jaeger stuff, although he's more of a thrash metal guy."

Mikasa's eyes light up. "Awesome," she enthuses. It's the first time Jean has seen her so animated; and he had thought he was into music to the point of obsession.

They leave the restaurant, and Mikasa gives Jean her name and number to give to Levi. Jean feels especially pathetic now; at least Sasha will be happy and someone will benefit.

It's started to rain, and Jean scowls at the sky as he walks back to the record store.

Jean just can’t get Marco out of his mind no matter how hard he tries, and he finds himself fixated on the obvious fact that Jean’s impromptu afternoon lunch date with a beautiful girl doesn’t bother Marco in the least. He's probably happily folding polo shirts right now, chatting with his preppy coworkers who all think he's hot without him realizing; because Marco is totally oblivious to the fact that he's hot.

"Fuck," Jean mumbles under his breath as he walks through the door.

Okay, time to chill out and finish work.

He successfully manages to avoid telling anyone to fuck off—even the most annoying customers—but he's reaching his limit by the end of the day.

Finally, it’s time to go home, and they lock up. He says goodnight to Sasha, and steels himself for the conversation that’s sure to follow with Marco.

As Jean walks toward his car, there’s Marco, waiting dutifully with a big fucking smile on his face. He waves, and Jean tries to smile; he already knows what the topic of conversation is going to be, and it's the last thing he wants to talk about.

"Hey!" Marco says enthusiastically as Jean walks up and goes around to Marco’s side to unlock the passenger-side door. "How was work?"

"Crazy, as usual," Jean replies, put at ease that at least the first thing Marco asks about isn’t Mikasa.

Marco climbs into the car, and Jean rests his hand on the handle of his side before opening the door, taking a deep breath. He resolves he will not snap, he will not lash out, and he will speak as little as possible until the Mikasa conversation is over. He can’t afford to let Marco know anything about his thoughts, because it will ruin their friendship.

Finally, he gets into the car after forcing a neutral expression onto his face. For a few minutes, Marco doesn’t say anything as Jean pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road, and they ride in comfortable silence. 

They're actually supposed to go to Jean's tonight to hang out, since Marco’s only been there twice, with plans to introduce Marco to the magical world of whiskey and Radiohead on vinyl.

And then, it begins.

"Wow, so that girl today was probably the prettiest person I've ever seen," Marco enthuses as the car travels in a straight line down the wet road, mostly empty due to the late hour. The traffic lights shine off the pavement, and the world seems very quiet, which makes Marco's voice sound all the louder. "So, was lunch fun?"

"It was fine."

"You guys would make a great couple!" Marco continues to chatter. "You're both really good looking, too."

Jean clears his throat and tries not to think about the fact that Marco just said he was attractive, albeit in a roundabout way.

"I guess," he grunts with a shrug.

“You should ask her out again. Is she your type? Is she—”

"Oh my _god,_ Marco!" Jean interjects with a harsh bark. "Can you just shut up? I don't want to fucking talk about it."

Marco's mouth snaps shut, and Jean immediately regrets his words. It's not _Marco's_ fault that Jean is upset over his indifference toward Jean’s romantic interest in someone else. Nevertheless, Jean can't seem to stop talking even as his mouth moves, because it's at this moment that he realizes the full extent of his feelings, and the true reality that they'll never be returned.

"You just seemed excited," Marco says very quietly after a few seconds of awkward silence, his voice laced with hurt.

"You talk too much," Jean continues bitterly, his mouth practically moving of its own accord at this point. "My love life is none of your fucking business, so don't act like it is."

Jean has always wondered how far he could push Marco's seemingly infinite patience before Marco snapped, and as the car rolls to a stop at a red light, Jean finds out.

"Okay," Marco replies simply in a flat voice. 

And with that, he smoothly opens the door and gets out, slamming it shut before Jean can even process what happened.

The light turns green and the two cars that have appeared behind Jean start honking. 

He rolls down his window to scream at them to shut the fuck up, and then the tires screech as he swerves the car across two empty lanes to turn off onto a side street. He jams the car into park and kills the engine, throwing the door open.

He doesn’t even bother locking it as he gets out and runs to the corner, looking both ways on the main road. There isn’t a soul around, and he doesn’t see Marco anywhere. Finally, though, as the traffic light changes from green, back to red, then back to green, something catches his eye a ways down the street.

Marco is sitting at the bus stop under the dim light of the shelter, and Jean takes off in a sprint to follow him. 

As soon as he sees Jean, though, he slides to the furthest end of the bench. Jean comes to an abrupt halt when he reaches the bus shelter, a hand over his heaving chest as he tries to catch his breath, and Marco shakes his head.

"I'm catching the bus and I don't want a ride," he says harshly, but his voice is unsettlingly calm. "In fact, I don't need one tomorrow, or the day after. So just—”

"I'm sorry!" Jean cries in a frantic voice.

It may be the first time in his entire life that he's apologized for something and really meant it.

"I’m sorry I said that to you," he repeats miserably, unable to look Marco in the eye. "That was a fucked up thing to say. I didn't mean it."

"I can't deal with this right now," Marco says in exasperation, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I had a really weird day and I don't feel good. I can take the bus. Just go."

"No,” Jean grits out.

"What do you mean ‘no?’"

Jean sits down at the other end of the bench from Marco and just looks at him.

"Tell me about your day," Jean says softly. "What happened?"

“You're going to get a ticket,” Marco comments, opening his eyes to look down the street where Jean left his car.

"I don't care," Jean says with a scowl. "This is more important."

The bus rumbles up right then, and Jean just looks at Marco, waiting, giving him the choice to leave.

The door hisses open, Marco doesn’t move; and as it pulls away, Jean slides down the bench to wrap Marco in a tight hug, and relief courses through Jean when Marco doesn’t push him away. He smells like the cold, toothpaste, and the same Gillette aftershave he’s used since they were teenagers; Jean closes his eyes, trying not to inhale too deeply.

"I'm really sorry," he breathes for a third time as he pulls away. "Please tell me what happened with you."

Marco sighs, folding his hands and looking at the ground; he apparently decides to let Jean stay, though, when he doesn’t tell him to leave again.

“It wasn’t even a big deal,” he says after a few beats of silence. “You know, everyone I work with is younger than me. They’re all seniors in high school.”

Jean groans and rolls his eyes. “Nightmare,” he says. That gets a little smile out of Marco, but he still hasn’t looked up.

“Well,” he says, interlacing his fingers and fidgeting nervously, “today, they were talking about college and the future, all excited.”

Jean knows where this is going, and he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out to embrace Marco again and hold him tight.

“Yeah?” he prompts quietly.

“And I...” Marco takes a shuddery sigh. “Well, they asked me for advice about college, and I realized that anything honest I had to say would crush them. They’re exactly like I was at that age—all idealistic and naive.”

Jean gives him a sad little smile. “Yeah, I get that,” he says, risking a slight pat on Marco’s shoulder. “Think of it this way: at least you’ve never gotten in trouble for telling a ten year old to fuck off.”

That does earn a laugh out of Marco, but he worries his lip. “I know it’s stupid, right?”

“No,” Jean says, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s not. Good people always get the short end of the stick.”

Marco sighs, and finally straightens to look at Jean. 

"Why'd you flip out about Mikasa?" he asks frankly, pulling his jacket more tightly around himself.

Jean clears his throat, and it’s his turn to stare down at his hands awkwardly.

"I'm sorry I took it out on you," he says quietly. "I’m just... confused about a lot of stuff right now, but that's not your problem."

"Did it go that badly?" Marco hazards, but his voice is curious.

"Literally, all she talked about was Jaeger. And... she's not my type."

"You're bi, right?" Marco asks.

Jean looks up sharply to stare at Marco. "Yeah," he answers carefully.

"Well," Marco says, already sounding a little more like his easygoing self, "at least that means you have twice the chance of meeting someone special." He gives an endearing smile, and Jean's heart skips a beat.

“Uh, I guess so.”

Marco shrugs, and then shivers a little. “So um, you know that thing I said about not needing a ride?” he asks, cringing, and Jean laughs.

“C’mon, let’s get the fuck out of here before my car gets towed.”

They walk back to Jean’s car, and before they get in, he looks at Marco seriously.

“Thanks for putting up with me,” he says softly.

Marco just meets his eyes over the roof of the car and replies with a little smile, “You’re not so bad, Jean. You’re my best friend.”

Jean swears there’s not a fucking frog in his throat as they drive off into the cold, damp night.


	4. Jean does not fucking love his straight best friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean explains why he is not in love with Marco and no one believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Reiner and Bertolt just changed the rating and tags on this bad boy. Have some porn and advice!
> 
> Reibert: The Original Gay Agony Aunts

“Bertolt is a world-class cock sucker.”

That’s what Reiner had said to Jean when ran they into each other after high school. Granted, it was quite a few months after they’d met each other again, and he had Bertolt’s permission to say it.

Jean had nearly choked on his beer and sputtered, blushing.

Given that Jean doesn’t have a lot of friends, befriending Reiner and Bertolt wasn’t exactly in his plan since they weren’t close in high school. Jean had hated high school as it was, even though he’d gotten good grades; he just wanted to move on and live his life without calamity.

However, after running into Reiner and Bertolt at an indie venue downtown, he’d decided it couldn’t hurt to have a friend or two, especially since they seemed to share at least semi-decent taste in music.

And then, of course, there’s the fact that Jean is kinky as fuck and had been a little sex-starved at the time. He’d mentioned as much, not thinking that he’d get the answer he had.

He knew they were gay and in a committed relationship, but he hadn’t been sure what their deal was for a while. Reiner would occasionally flirt with other men while Bertolt just sat quietly and drank his beer, watching.

It took Jean a few bar visits and late nights to figure out that Bertolt and Reiner enjoy going home with more than just each other.

And then, it had come out—the pun is not lost on Jean—that Jean is bisexual. It’d never occurred to him before that they’d be interested, but once the topic was broached, it _all_ had come out.

Jean has never been straight up vanilla, but he’s also never gotten the chance to fully explore his own yearnings until now. Because after Reiner had calmly informed him over a beer that—not only was Bertolt a “world class cock sucker”—but that he wanted to suck Jean’s cock, things got interesting.

And Jean had said what the hell—it was the best decision he’d made in a while.

Today is a good day, in fact, since Jean is engaged in one of his favorite afternoon activities as he throws his head back and pumps his hips, moaning as Bertl takes his cock deeper into his mouth. 

Jean is sitting on Reiner’s lap with his legs spread, arching his back against the larger, secure body. Reiner is an attentive lover, gently biting and licking at Jean’s neck and playing with his nipples as Bertl sucks him off.

“Oh, _fuck_ , that’s good,” he moans. He feels Bertl’s slippery fingers gently pushing between his buttocks to prod at his entrance, and Jean hisses, spreading his legs wider and tilting his hips up.

“Mm,” Reiner nuzzles his ear, “you want to get fucked?”

“Yeah,” Jean groans, knowing Reiner likes it when he talks dirty. “Bend me over and fuck me nice and hard.”

Reiner laughs in his ear, low and reassuring, as he kisses Jean’s neck.

The two of them are good company, and Jean now never wants for a satisfying sex life. They have their own secrets and Jean has his; but as far as partners go, he really couldn’t do much better. He’s happy being on this side of bisexual at the moment—he doesn’t know who wouldn’t be with Bertl’s mouth and Reiner’s cock, of course—but he has to count himself lucky having met them. There’s no drama. This is all about feeling good, and the two of them are so close—practically attached at the hip—that there’s no chance of jealousy or love triangles.

Jean feels a little guilty lately, though, because when one of them is fucking him, he sometimes closes his eyes and thinks of what Marco would feel like inside of him. He knows it’s traitorous, but he can’t help it.

They end up on the bed, Jean flat on his stomach with his legs spread and his hips slightly inclined with a pillow underneath of him. Reiner leans over him, placing nippy little kisses against his shoulders that leave a perfect, slight sting, and then Jean feels a finger push into him.

He moans, and Bertl is there in front of him on his knees. Sometimes he likes to watch—although Jean knows he’s _mostly_ watching Reiner—but he’s also a big fan of blow jobs, both giving and receiving.

Jean opens his mouth and sucks Bertl’s cock for all he’s worth. He’s actually rather proud of his ability to deep throat at this point, especially since Bertl’s well-endowed. Jean was a little surprised the first time, because Bertl’s so lanky, but he should’ve guessed due to his height.

He feels Bertl’s fingers grip his hair tight, and it hurts just enough to make it good; Jean likes a little pain mixed in with his pleasure. It keeps him on an edge he enjoys, and Bertl starts to fuck his mouth; he starts out slow, asking for permission to get a little rougher, and Jean moans a yes around his cock.

Reiner’s got two fingers in him now, pushing in and out slickly, and Bertl moans, too.

“Your filthy mouth...” he groans, and Jean knows his eyes are shut. 

“How filthy is his mouth?” Reiner prompts. If there’s one thing he likes better than Jean talking dirty, it’s Bertl doing it, since he so rarely lets down his guard enough to do so.

Bertl is for too immersed in the sloppy blow job that Jean is giving him to care, though, and he pulls Jean’s hair sharply. “I’m fucking his throat,” he says huskily, “and he still won’t give up.”

Reiner hooks his fingers, and Jean lets out a hoarse, sharp sound around Bertl’s cock. 

“Bertl, would you like to do the honors?”

Jean actually likes the sound of that, given that he’s been working Bertl’s cock pretty devotedly, and Bertl moans out an affirmative.

“Jean, that okay with you?”

Jean draws away to grind out a yes, and pushes back against Reiner’s fingers impatiently.

Finally, Bertl draws back, panting, to switch places with Reiner. Jean knows his sheets are going to be a mess by the end of this—already are, stained with precome and spit—and he could care less. He’s starting to think he should just get some damn vinyl to lay down, but that would be venturing a little _too_ far into kinkyland.

Jean isn’t in the closet about his sexuality; it’s his kinks that are in the closet. He’s more likely to blush over being a paid a compliment in public than invite someone back for some wild sex involving dildos and dirty talk.

Of course, once he’s _behind_ closed doors, it’s a different story. 

He’s also not a big fan of things like emotional attachments. 

Polite post-coital affection? Yes. 

Love and lots of kissing solely for the sake of kissing? No.

Bertl presses a few wet kisses to the small of his back, no doubt streaking Jean’s precome there along with his own spit, and then he hears Bertl unwrapping a condom. 

The first time they did this, he also felt reassured when they both had pulled out condoms at the same time, and then they’d all laughed.

Just some good, clean, kinky fun.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Jean gasps as Bertl’s cock slowly nudges at his entrance, and then pushes into him slightly, stopping to let Jean adjust. Bertl is _big_ , and at first glance, Jean had been nervous about it; but once they get going, it’s always good.

Reiner’s disappeared, and Jean knows from the sound of the springs and the way that Bertl is stretched over him, practically trembling, that Reiner is probably fingering him from behind.

He pushes the rest of the way in, and Jean lets out a sharp cry as he feels Bertl’s cock slide home.

Jean bites the sheets and whimpers as Bertl starts to fuck him, pumping his hips slowly; he’s good at this, and even though he often prefers to watch than do, Jean always looks forward to a good, thorough fucking from Bertl. He’s unexpectedly intense about it, using all his strength to really give it to Jean; and he’s very strong. Almost stronger than Reiner. 

Reiner’s the type of guy you expect to do 10 pull-ups without blinking; but no one realizes how strong Bertolt really is, which makes him all the more impressive when he shows it.

“Good?” he asks into Jean’s ear, his voice hoarse as his hips move faster.

“Fuck, yes,” Jean groans through where he’s biting down on the sheets, his hand fisting in them, too.

Bertl is also very considerate, if not a little nervous, despite the amazing ways his body can move.

“ _Reiner_ ,” Bertl gasps.

Jean recognizes that sound—Reiner has a wonderful propensity for finding prostate glands without much trouble and then using it to his advantage mercilessly.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Bertl murmurs, focusing on Jean again.

Jean moans, his voice jumping every time Bertl gives a hard, forceful thrust forward, and he feels a hand pull the sheets out of his mouth.

They both like it when he makes noise, and he doesn’t protest; they’re all getting close, so he starts to make a racket, moaning and shuddering as loudly as he wants.

It gets to a point with these two that he just stops giving a fuck _what_ his neighbors hear.

Bertl gives a sharp cry—probably due to one last twist from Reiner’s fingers and Jean’s body squeezing around his cock—and he tenses as he comes.

Finally, he pulls his cock out and collapses against Jean’s back with a dreamy sigh, and Reiner starts laughing.

“Get off Jean, Bertl. You’re going to suffocate him.”

Bertl gives a lazy, relaxed snort before rolling over to dispose of the condom; then grabs Reiner, pulling him down to finish him off with that _glorious_ mouth.

Reiner pulls Jean over to sidle up next to him, and he lazily jerks him off as Bertl sucks Reiner’s cock.

They both come at nearly the same time, and then the three of them collapse in a pile of sated, sweaty, orgasm-happy limbs.

Reiner’s got his arms around Bertl, kissing his ear and murmuring tender things into it; he’s always vulnerable after intense orgasms—particularly when he’s doing the fucking—although Jean has a feeling that it doesn’t matter whether it’s a group thing, or just him and Reiner.

Jean suddenly feels an unexpected pang. His face must show it, too, because Reiner looks over in concern with raised eyebrows.

“You okay?” he asks. Bertl is half-asleep, but he echoes Reiner’s question; or at least makes a concerned sound. He’s hypnotized by Reiner stroking his hip affectionately, though, cradled in his arms.

“Uh, yeah,” Jean says awkwardly, sighing and sitting up. 

“What’s up, Jean? Something is weird.”

Jean’s eyes widen. “Sorry,” he says quickly, “no, it’s not this. That was amazing.”

Reiner looks a little less worried, but he holds out his hand. “You want to cuddle, tough guy?”

Jean rolls his eyes and laughs—even though he knows Reiner is serious—but declines. “It’s just...” he bites his lip. He doesn’t like talking about his feelings. “Um... there’s this guy.”

That gets even Bertl’s attention, and he opens his eyes, struggling up to balance on his elbow. They’re both staring at Jean in great interest now.

“Guy?” Bertl prompts.

“Well,” Jean says, a little embarrassed now. “He’s straight.”

Sympathetic looks pass over their faces simultaneously, and Jean groans and rolls his eyes.

“Fucking Christ, it’s not like I’m in _love_ with him.”

There’s a stunned silence—since Jean’s denial of that fact is far more incriminating than having an ounce of truth to it—and Bertl clears his throat.

“Oh boy,” is all he says after a moment, and Jean scowls at him. Reiner cringes and smacks Bertl in the arm lightly.

“You want to talk about it?” Reiner offers.

Jean covers his face with his hands, shaking his head in embarrassment and groaning. “I’m going to take a shower,” he says. “But... maybe I...” He peeks through his fingers, and Reiner has an eyebrow raised. “ _No,_ never mind. I don’t need to talk about anything.”

“Why don’t you take a shower,” Reiner suggests, ignoring Jean’s dismissal of the offer to talk, “and I’ll help Bertl here recover.”

Jean curses at himself the entire time he’s in the shower, scrubbing his face to get the black eyeliner all the way off.

He remembers suddenly when Marco asked him about it the first time.

_“Are you wearing... eyeliner?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Oh,” Marco had said with an easy smile, “it actually looks good.”_

Fuck Marco and his goddamn compliments.

Jean pushes Marco out of his mind and pointedly ignores the fact that, even though he just came and got fucked six different ways from Sunday, his cock twitches with interest at the mere thought of the preppy fucker. 

That adorable best-friend-you-could-ever-ask-for preppy fucker. 

Goddamn it.

He gets out of the shower still muttering to himself, toweling off his hair and looking at himself in the mirror.

There are two hickies just below his collar bones and probably some bruises on his hips. He actually likes the feeling of a little sting and ache after banging Reiner and Bertl. It’s one of the best parts of his week and leaves him with all kind of gay endorphins afterwards.

He studies himself, though, turning to the side and looking at the lines of his shoulders and neck. He wonders what he’d look like dressed up like a preppy asshole, wearing some douchey Abercrombie polo shirt with khakis—

Nope, nope. The thought is too horrifying.

His hair dries quickly and he rubs some styling wax through it, but forgoes the eyeliner today.

When he finally reemerges, to his surprise, Reiner and Bertl are sitting at his tiny kitchen table together. Reiner’s pulled three beers out of the fridge, and Jean sees one unopened one sitting on the table.

“Step into our office,” Reiner offers. Jean laughs a little, but he doesn’t sit, feeling self-conscious. 

Reiner cracks the beer open on the table and hands it over to him; Jean accepts, but slouches against the doorframe, as if he can disappear into the floor. 

“So,” Reiner starts, “who’s the guy?”

“He’s preppy as fuck,” Jean immediately replies. He feels horrible immediately and cringes. “I mean, no, _he’s_ great. But... he dresses really preppy and I’m pretty sure any other friends he has are preppy, too.” 

“How’d you meet?” Bertl asks in interest.

“Um, Bible camp, originally.”

Reiner bursts out laughing, almost spitting out his beer, and it’s Bertl this time who tells him to knock it off.

Jean scowls at both of them and takes an angry swig from his beer, and Reiner looks contrite, tears in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.”

Jean groans and sighs. “I was like eleven, okay? My mom was into that wholesome shit. Even though religion is actually really creepy.”

Bertl nods at that, and Reiner seems to agree with a shrug.

“That’s actually how we met, technically,” Reiner says unexpectedly, and Bertl turns swiftly to stare at him, as if not expecting the statement. “Our parents were both in this weird cult and—”

“Shut _up,_ Reiner,” Bertl snaps. “Why are you talking about that?”

Reiner snaps his mouth shut, blushing a little. It’s rare that Bertl actually reprimands him, but when he does, it’s like watching a kicked, over-sized puppy cower in the corner.

Jean feels that pang again; he knows the reason why Reiner is so affected by Bertl’s approval or disapproval is because they’re totally devoted to one another. Jean also knows they don’t have an easy past, although the only thing he _really_ knows for sure is that they met in foster care, and became inseparable thereafter. They keep those details exclusively to themselves, though.

There’s an awkward silence, until Bertl says, “Can you get me another beer?” 

Reiner rises to go to the fridge and silently retrieve one, cracks it open, and sets it down on the table in front of Bertl without a word. Before he can draw back, though, Bertl catches his hand and kisses the back of it; Reiner looks more at ease immediately, and the awkwardness disappears as though it was never there. 

“So,” Bertl asks conversationally as he turns to look at Jean again, sipping at his beer, “how long have you been in love with him?” 

Jean chokes on his beer, and when he opens his mouth to let out a stream of outraged denials, Bertl interjects, “You’re the one who used that word before. That was _all_ you.”

“Hey!” Jean says, his eyes wide. He knows he’s doing a terrible job of retaining any dignity he may have had left. “I... I don’t fucking _love_ him. I... we’re friends.”

“I love my friends,” Reiner pipes in logically.

“I love my friends, too!” Jean exclaims. “I mean, I guess I love him because he’s my friend, but I’m not _in_ love with him. That would be totally lame and pathetic... especially because he’s _straight_.”

“Jean’s not in love with his straight friend because his straight friend is straight,” Bertl says flatly, shooting Reiner a look. “Did you get that?”

“Yup,” Reiner replies.

Jean groans and puts his hands over his face again, giving it up and collapsing into the chair. He puts his head down in embarrassment on the table so they can’t look at him.

“So, do you think he loves you?”

Jean lifts his head with one eye open to look at Reiner.

“Why the fuck would he love me?”

“I don’t know. Obviously you guys share something... significant, even if it’s just friendship.”

“Um,” Jean says, sighing and turning his head to rest on one arm and look at Reiner sideways, “I mean... we’re really good friends at this point. So, I guess... maybe? Not _in_ love, but...”

He knows full well that Marco loves him; but that’s because Marco is full of love, and he loves _all_ his friends.

“I mean,” Jean adds, “he loves _everyone_. He’s just that kind of person.”

“Why you don’t you invite him to hang out with us?”

Jean’s eyes widen, and even Bertl looks over at Reiner in surprise.

Reiner shrugs calmly and finishes his beer, standing up to put it in the sink.

“If he’s cool, then he won’t mind hanging out with your faggy friends slash fuck buddies, right?”

“Wow, Reiner,” Bertl says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re just full of good ideas.”

“No, I’m serious,” Reiner replies, turning to lean against the counter and cross his arms. “If he’s got even an ounce of gay in him, there’s no better way to make him feel comfortable than hanging out with a fag trio.”

“I’m only part fag,” Jean retorts immediately. That even gets a laugh out of Bertl, and Reiner chuckles in that deep voice that gives Jean shivers when he’s talking dirty.

“You like cock too much to be only part fag,” Reiner retorts without missing a beat. Bertl is outright laughing now, and Jean is starting to laugh, too.

“Look,” he says more seriously, “sometimes people fall _in_ love, and they don’t even know it.”

Jean sobers immediately and stares down at his cracked kitchen table. It was a hand-me-down from his grandmother—all green formica in a show of true 1970s pride—and he idly studies the uneven edges in its surface.

“Jean, don’t sulk. It makes you look like an asshole.”

Jean snorts dismissively. “I’m not sulking.”

“If you don’t do something,” Bertl says softly, “he’s going to fall in love with someone else, and you’ll miss your chance. What if you _do_ have a chance, but you never take advantage of it?”

Jean bites his lip and tries not to let his throat tighten; the idea of Marco falling in love with someone else and dating them actually makes his stomach turn. But it’s only a matter of time—a guy like Marco doesn’t stay on the market for long.

“Maybe... you’re right,” he replies, letting a little of the intense vulnerability he feels creep into his voice.

“He knows you’re not straight, right?” Reiner asks.

Jean nods. “Yeah, I told him I’m bi.”

“And did it bother him?”

“Of course not. He’s Marco. Nothing bothers him.”

“Is that his name? Wait... is he that guy who always waits for you after work? With the freckles?”

“Yeah,” Jean says softly, “and he buys horrible music. I thought he was messing with me at first, but he actually likes Britney Spears.”

“Hey,” Bertl interrupts, “Britney is a pop culture phenomenon. You’re such a snob.”

Jean laughs and shrugs. “Whatever. Maybe I am. Not only that, though—he bought Britney Spears on _vinyl_ ,” he says, getting warmed up to the subject of Marco’s terrible taste in music. “Who the fuck _does_ that?”

“Well, it’s better than liking that sad bastard shit that you listen to.”

“I do _not_ listen to sad bastard shit. In fact—”

Reiner groans and Bertl immediately puts two hands over his ears.

He stops talking and frowns, rolling his eyes. “You guys are so clueless,” he finally concludes petulantly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Reiner replies, reaching into the fridge for another beer. “Go write your music snob thesis somewhere else, Kirschstein. Now, back to Marco.”

“He bought Britney Spears on vinyl, and you still like him?” Bertl asks suddenly, as if hit by a ray of brilliance.

Reiner’s eyebrows raise, as if he’s surprised he hadn’t thought of that himself, and he looks over expectantly at Jean, too.

Jean knows he’s been caught, and he just fiddles with his beer bottle, staring at the label.

“Maybe,” he murmurs.

“Oh, man,” Reiner says rather sympathetically, “you’re not just in love with him...”

“You want to _marry_ him,” Bertl finishes.

“I do not!” Jean cries. “What are we, in fifth grade?”

“I would’ve pegged you for seventh grade, Jean,” Reiner quips, “if I’m being generous.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bertl says dismissively. “So are you going to ask him to hang out with your homo troupe or not?”

“Like a _double date_?” Jean gasps in horror.

Judging from the unexpectedly offended expression on Reiner’s face, Jean just hit a sore spot.

“Jesus, Jean,” Reiner replies in exasperation, “why don’t you just thump a bible against my ass the next time I’m fucking you if you’re so horrified by a _gay_ double date.”

“It’s not that!” Jean exclaims. “I just...”

“You’re being too hard on him,” Bertl rebukes Reiner. Reiner grumbles, but doesn’t press the issue.

“We get it. You don’t want _him_ to feel like you’re trying to hit on him and make him uncomfortable,” Bertl says sympathetically, giving Reiner a critical side eye.

“Yeah,” Jean sighs, looking at the floor. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s not much you can _do_ ,” Bertl says reasonably, “but there might be some things about him you don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Reiner adds, apparently back on the optimism bandwagon. “Well, there _are_ things you can do, but all they’ll do is help uncover what’s already there.”

There’s a short, tense silence, until Jean finally asks, very quietly, “What if there isn’t anything there?” 

Bertl sighs, and Reiner shrugs. “That sucks, but at least then you’ll know.”

Jean has to admit they have a point. He still doesn’t know what’s worse, though: being afraid and remaining safely protected behind his shell, or being brave and getting rejected.

“So you think hanging out with you guys will make him feel more... gay?” Now they both burst out laughing while Jean watches helplessly. “What?!” he cries.

“Jean, just invite him to hang out with your goddamn friends,” Reiner says, rolling his eyes.

“Um, could you uh... not mention that...” Jean says awkwardly, and Reiner’s face immediately turns serious. Bertl watches cautiously, looking back and forth between them. “That we’re all ‘special’ friends?”

Reiner’s face immediately eases; Jean makes a mental note to be careful about what he says in regard to staying in the closet. While it’s something he’d never condone, Jean has an amazing tendency to say the stupidest shit on the face of the Earth without meaning the way it comes out.

“Yeah, sure,” Reiner agrees easily.

“I’m not _ashamed_ of it,” Jean adds emphatically. “But I just think it’ll confuse him. He’s sort of... traditional.”

“That’s okay,” Reiner reassures him. “We’ll just be your fun gay couple friends who make you go to drag shows.”

“Hey, I openly admit I like drag shows,” Jean says, crossing his arms with a raised eyebrows. Bertl is smiling a little, and Reiner grins widely.

“ _Yeah_ , you do. Remember that time what’s-her-name came back with us and—”

“Hey, _Reiner_ —things to keep to yourself when meeting Marco?” Bertl interrupts, pointing at Reiner. “Item one: _see above._ ”

Reiner gives an exaggerated, long-suffering roll of his eyes, but then focuses on Jean. “Is he kinky?”

 _“What?”_ Jean squeaks. The idea of Marco being kinky is both absurd and also very exciting, and Jean is afraid his brain is going to melt if he thinks about it for too long. “I don’t know!”

“You just fucked both of us at the same time,” Reiner says logically, taking another sip of his beer, “and you’re blushing over the idea of your straight, preppy friend being kinky?”

“You’ve got it bad,” Bertl adds, a concerned look on his face.

There’s a limit to how much of his pride he can lose in one day, and Jean’s just reached it. 

“I don’t have it _bad_ ,” he retorts staunchly, standing up to lean in the doorway again and crossing his arms. “There’s no way he feels the same way, and the only reason I’m doing this... is because if I don’t _confirm_ it, it’ll bother me for the rest of my life.”

He’s expecting to get rebuked, but they both just nod, as if this is reasonable.

“I want to meet him, anyway,” Reiner says with a shrug.

That’s the end of the conversation, and suddenly, Jean just realized he agreed to bring Marco along to hang out with Reiner and Bertl. Which is fine—just fine—but with a terrifying goal of figuring out just how misplaced his own feelings are. 

He feels Reiner studying him suddenly and looks up. 

“What time do you have to go to work?” Reiner asks innocently, making his way over to where Jean is still slouching in the doorway.

“Not until four,” Jean says, feeling his stomach flip at the way Reiner’s looking at him. “Why?”

Bertl’s smiling a little, and he stands up.

Reiner gets close to Jean and bends to brush his lips over Jean’s ear; Jean shivers, and shuts his eyes.

“Stop obsessing,” he says softly. 

Jean groans and gives in without a fight, pressing up against Reiner. It’s a relief not to have to think; this is why he’s very happy to be part of the gay triforce.

He goes happily as Reiner picks him up by the backs of his legs and carries him into the bedroom, dumping him onto the mattress. He immediately grins and arches his body lazily like a cat, letting Bertl work off his jeans as Reiner pushes the flannel shirt back onto his shoulders, kissing playfully at his collar bones.

“At _least_ seventy-five percent fag,” Reiner murmurs, and Jean laughs as he wraps one arm around Reiner’s broad torso. The laughter tapers off into a moan as Bertl presses up against the other side of him—devoid of clothing now—and he shuts his eyes.

The last coherent thought he has is what it would be like if Marco were kissing him the way Reiner is; but what really pushes him off the cliff into incoherency is the idea of Marco being here with _all_ of them.

Jean comes faster than he usually does, and quite a few times that afternoon.


	5. Jean is definitely not dancing to fucking Britney Spears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco fucks up everyone's gaydar, Jean realizes that not everything is black and white, and Reiner moshes.

“So, uh...” Jean hazards, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Yeah?” Marco asks, looking up from where Jean is leaning against the store counter, pockets shoved deep into his army jacket.

“You set on staying home tonight?”

Jean looks around self-consciously at the Abercrombie store. There are lots of big black and white pictures of young white people doing wholesome “all American” things—like shirtless guys hanging out on beaches with dogs and playing volleyball—but somehow, it’s just... really homoerotic.

“Nope, not really,” Marco replies cheerfully, smiling as he folds the last of a massive pile of polo shirts.

“Wow,” Jean mutters, shooting a death glare at two teenage boys who walk past, looking him up and down critically, “these pictures are, um...”

“What pictures?” Marco asks, looking up at Jean curiously.

“You know,” Jean says, gesturing around them and laughing a little, “all the promo pics or whatever you want to call them.”

“Oh, the corporate decorations?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jean says with a shrug.

“They’re what?” Marco prompts, pushing the pile of folded shirts carefully to the edge of the counter and putting his folding board underneath.

“They’re really _gay_ ,” Jean whispers, trying not to laugh.

“Jean,” Marco gasps in shock, “I wouldn’t ever think you’d use that word as a slur.”

Jean rolls his eyes—slowly, for emphasis—and tries not to laugh when he adds, “No, I mean literally gay. As in, like... these guys are big homos and they want to take it in the—”

“ _Oh_ ,” Marco breathes, and then he starts laughing harder than Jean would’ve first anticipated. “No, they totally are.”

Jean’s eyebrows raise as Marco pokes him in the shoulder playfully. “You’re ‘half,’ right? Isn’t that what you said?”

Jean grins and nods. “Yeah, exactly. See, I’m a good judge.” He pokes Marco back, getting a little thrill out of touching him, and Marco beams at him.

Suddenly, Jean realizes those same boys are openly _staring_ at them now, and he’s relatively sure he hears the word “fags” thrown around in there somewhere. 

And it occurs to him that he’s flirting with Marco without even realizing.

Shit.

“Uh,” he says awkwardly, taking two giant step backwards, “yeah, so, anyway...”

Marco doesn’t seem fazed, though, and picks up the pile of shirts to stack them on a nearby shelf. 

The entire store smells like some kind of weird cologne that a forest might wear—maybe “Eau de Balsam Stench”, if Jean had to put a name to it—and it’s dimly lit. The only reason he’s even here is because he’d agreed to come meet Marco at the end of his shift to plan out their night. They usually hang out when their work schedules overlap—which is pretty much always at this point. That, and Marco has finally grown sick of Ross and Rachel’s never-ending saga. 

Jean fidgets with his tight ‘ZERO’ t-shirt self-consciously (channeling 1995-era ‘Bullet with Butterfly Wings’ Billy Corgan) and shuffles his feet, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. He’s relatively sure that if he stays here much longer, he’s going to share the same fate as a vampire exposed to sunlight. Or, in the immortal words of Smashing Pumpkins, “The world is a vampire... sent to drain”—‘world,’ in this case, being shitty, preppy retail stores filled with bigots; Marco exempted, who is not a biggot.

“Wait, so what were you asking me before?” Marco asks cheerfully, pushing some keys on the register to punch out. 

“Oh!” Jean says, picking up his original train of thought. “I wanted to know if you wanted to come out to this show. It’s in downtown Trost, so it’s not exactly fancy, but the band might be cool.”

“I mean, if you think I’d like it, then I probably will,” Marco replies immediately with a shrug. He looks up to meet Jean’s eyes, and Jean desperately fights down the blush he feels immediately rising as Marco smiles a little.

He looks so good when he smiles—the way his eyes are so warm already and how his mouth turns up at the corner a little—and his fucking freckles and shit he’s so goddamn cute Jean just wants to throw up.

“Yeah,” he replies mechanically, forcing himself to speak. 

“Uh, are you okay?”

“This store is too gay for me.”

That distracts Marco enough to make him laugh out loud, and he nods. “Okay, let’s get out of here. Let me just grab my jacket.” 

He strides into the back and disappears, and Jean looks around. There are so many polo shirts folded on shelves that it makes him almost feel dizzy. It’s closing time, so he thankfully hasn’t had to traverse hoards of preppy fucks looking for someone like him to give the evil eye.

The truth is that this is all a ploy. Well, no... Jean sighs, rubbing his face with his hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. He can’t think of it that way, because it sounds deceitful. He’s not trying to lie to Marco, but this is moment of truth he’d discussed with Bertl and Reiner.

He figured a show was as good a time as any to have Marco meet them and hang out. And it’s not as if Jean has planned some devious evening—he’s literally only planning on introducing one of his friends to his two other friends (Jean has a total of three people he’d count as friends). Figuring out how misplaced his own feelings are for Marco—he’s gayer for Marco than an Abercrombie shirt is for a muscley guy on the beach—is just part of the package. He doesn’t even know what he’s planning to do, if anything at all. Either way, it’ll certainly be a different dynamic with Bertl and Reiner there.

“Ready!” Marco says, grinning as he emerges from the back wearing his leather jacket.

He looks really good in that jacket and— 

Jean forces his brain to shut up. Ever since that talk with Reiner and Bertl a few weeks before—when he’d finally admitted his feelings out loud—everything has gone downhill in his bid to keep them a secret. His thought process has been a free for all that has basically amounted to him thinking about how hot Marco is every minute he sees him. Marco is hot eating lo mein; Marco is hot when he talks; Marco is hot when he breathes; Marco is hot when he blinks.

And it’s only getting worse. Jean knows the entire situation is reaching critical mass, and he needs to deal with it.

“Great!” he croaks, forcing a smile.

“Jean, you look like someone just made you swallow a bottle of hot sauce.”

“Oh, uh, sorry... being in here makes me a little twitchy.”

Marco laughs and leads the way out. “I’m ready to go. I spend enough time here as it is, even though I don’t mind the job.”

They walk side by side and exit the mall, crossing the parking lot to Jean’s car. It’s still cold, but the frigid season is just on the cusp of spring, and Jean can smell it in the air.

“It’s really nice out!” Marco exclaims, smiling at Jean as he zips up his jacket. “I love this time of year.”

Jean just smiles at him a little and shrugs.

“You want to ride with the windows down?”

“Sure,” Marco replies. “Uh, am I going to fit in at this place?”

“Not a chance.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Jean grins at him as they climb into the car. “Oh, also, I hope it’s okay...”

Marco shoots him a curious look as he gets into the passenger side and pulls the door closed. “Uh huh?”

Jean starts the car and it roars to life; he rolls down his window a little, and the tape player clicks on as Billy Corgan’s melodic wail of “love is suicide” floods the car.

“My two friends are also coming—Bertolt Hoover and Reiner Braun. We went to high school together.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Marco says, but Jean is intrigued by the fact he actually sounds a little nervous.

“Don’t worry,” he reassures him, “they’re chilled out. And, um, they want to meet you. Just because we hang out so much.”

Marco brightens a little, but he still looks shy. “I didn’t used to be so shy about meeting new people,” he says softly, his voice suddenly more somber. “Sorry if I seem... jittery.”

“That’s okay,” Jean replies gently, feeling his heart beat a little faster at the protective feelings welling up in him. “I’ll be there.”

It comes out sounding far more familiar than he intended, but Marco doesn’t seem to think it’s odd at all. In fact, he looks more at ease, and finally looks over at Jean.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and then burrows down into his jacket as they wait for the car to warm up a little. “Who’s the band?”

Jean grins. “I don’t know. Some group Reiner wants to see. It should be a good time, though.”

Marco nods, putting on a resolute face. “Sounds good.”

= = =

The bar is small, hot, crowded, and Jean is starting to wonder if this was a bad idea, even though Marco seems to be having a fine time so far. He’s unfazed, and is more curious about the surrounding crowd, staring at everyone’s various piercings, tattoos, and multicolored hair. As is wont to be the case with Marco, he’s also oblivious to the fact that everyone is staring at him because he’s wearing khakis and a polo shirt.

“Jean!” 

Jean sees a hand wave, and then a familiar head of dark hair appears; when you’re at a crowded bar, the best beacon you can have is Bertolt Hoover since he stands heads and shoulders above everyone else.

“Hey!” Jean calls back, waving. As he turns to catch Marco’s attention, he’s surprised to see that Marco currently has a tumbler of actual _whiskey_ in his hand.

Marco sees his expression and shrugs a little. “It was technically your idea, right?”

Jean can’t fault him there, and then he laughs a little. It’s true—it was his idea to introduce Marco to the finer points of whiskey in an effort to abandon the evils of shitty light beer.

“Fair enough,” he replies warmly, smiling a little. He can’t help the way his hand immediately comes up and pats Marco lightly on the shoulder, as if it has a mind of its own and takes every possible opportunity to touch Marco.

And then Bertl’s in front of them, very obviously trying not to raise an eyebrow as he watches Jean’s gesture, and Reiner, standing right behind him, grinning like an asshole.

“Hey, Jean,” Reiner says, laughing a little.

“Marco,” Jean says, stepping away a little so they can both seem him, “this is Bertolt and Reiner.”

Bertl sticks his hand out first. “You can call me Bertl. Nice to meet you.”

“And I’m Reiner,” Reiner says, sticking his hand out at the same time.

Marco’s eyebrows raise, and then he takes both of their hands in two of his and shakes them together. “Um, hi. Nice to meet you!” His voice is a little forced, but enthusiastic. Jean realizes he really is nervous.

Bertl keeps his hand on Reiner’s and grasps it in his own, and they lean against each other.

It’s not that Bertl and Reiner aren’t affectionate in public, but they’re usually not _this_ affectionate. Marco doesn’t even seem to notice, though; or if he does, he doesn’t care. 

“So what are we drinking?” Reiner asks conversationally, eyeing Marco’s glass. “That looks like a Kirschstein original right there.”

“Oh,” Marco says, his eyes widening, “it is. I usually stick to soda, or light beer.”

“That’s cool,” Bertl replies with a shrug. “I stuck to soda for a while, too, until I realized I hate sugar and cancer.”

Marco actually laughs at that, and Jean feels a sense of relief course through him. 

Bertl leans over the bar where they’re standing, and Reiner immediately presses against his back, wrapping two hands around his waist.

Finally, Marco notices and visibly registers, but then doesn’t say anything; he just waits for the bartender to come back, and Jean realizes he’s already finished his whiskey.

Despite that, though, things seem to actually be going relatively well. He doesn’t even seem fazed by Reiner’s blatant display of affection, and if anything, he seems to be getting along with them.

Not that Jean expected anything less of Marco Bodt—he who loves all. Kind of like Jesus... with a lot of freckles.

Bertl and Reiner get their beers, and then they lean against the bar together, Reiner’s arm draped casually over Bertl’s shoulders.

“So there’s an awesome gay bar just around the corner from here,” Reiner says, “if you guys want to do something afterwards.”

Jean chokes on his drink and spits half a mouthful of whiskey out, and it takes Marco giving him a few firm pats on the back in concerned surprise before he catches his breath. He’s still coughing into his hand and glaring at Reiner out of the corner of his eye, who just looks smug.

“Jean’s my ride, so it’s up to him,” Marco says with a shrug. 

Both Bertl and Reiner turn to study him, and Marco just smiles warmly. Even though Jean is still catching his breath, he can’t help but be amused as he watches the exchange, since it’s obvious Marco is fucking with their gaydar horribly. What started as Reiner and Bertl showing up with shit eating grins to help Jean figure out his love life has turned into a giant mystery. Once again, Marco defies categorization. 

“Well, what do you say, Jean?” Reiner finally asks says, turning to look at Jean with a raised eyebrow. It clearly says he has no fucking idea how to read Marco. 

However, the idea of going to a gay bar with Marco suddenly makes Jean’s stomach flip. “I don’t care,” he says with a nonchalant shrug that belies the feeling in his stomach. “I could do that if we’re all feeling up for it.”

They’re distracted from the conversation as the band starts tuning up on stage. Jean can already tell they’re going to suck, but he really only came because Reiner begged him. Something about how Armored Titan was the next best grunge band since Nirvana; Jean had to admit they had a decent name. It also presented an opportunity for Bertl and Reiner to meet Marco, and immerse him in a world of gay.

Reiner is genuinely not paying attention to Jean and Marco now as he makes his way through the crowd toward—poor Bertl in tow by default, even though he hates crowds.

Jean laughs a little and rolls his eyes. “This band is going to blow so hard,” he mumbles, and Marco snorts. He turns to face Marco and says in a more serious voice, “Uh, do you really want to go a gay bar?”

To his surprise, Marco shrugs. “Sure. I’ve never been to one before, and it’s nice to get out of house for an actual entire night.”

“You might fit in better there with your Abercrombie get-up,” Jean quips.

Marco laughs, and Jean tries not to let his excitement show when Marco taps him on the arm. “Thanks, Jean. That’s really reassuring.”

Jean isn’t quite sure of what he’s doing until he’s got one of his arms around Marco, and he pulls him in for the most awkward one-armed hug in the history of hugging.

He can feel Marco stiffen immediately, and Jean pulls back swiftly. “Um,” he stutters, “yeah, high five?”

Marco is staring at him like he’s grown two heads. “For what?”

“Polo shirts.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind; Jean hates himself.

“You want to high five me,” Marco asks, looking down at his shirt and then back up at Jean with a completely baffled expression, “for... polo shirts?”

“Yes!” he exclaims, his voice increasing in pitch. “Polo shirts and gay bars, and uh...” 

What is an attempted joke just makes it worse, until Marco starts to laugh.

“Um, Jean?” he says, amusement lingering in his expression. “You might want to lay off the whiskey for a while.”

Yes, blame everything on alcohol.

Jean laughs nervously and shrugs. “Good idea,” he agrees lamely, and then turns sharply to stare at the stage as the shitty band starts to play.

“Oh my god, they suck worse than I thought,” he whispers at Marco, distracted from his terrible awkwardness by the truly heinous song being played about a note off key.

Marco is bobbing his head along awkwardly, and even he looks over at Jean and cringes. It’s really bad if even Marco isn’t trying to be polite about it.

“Uh, Reiner’s really into it,” Marco remarks, his eyes widening.

“Reiner’s into anything that has a mosh pit that he can just plow through,” Jean answers with a roll of his eyes. “And he always pulls poor Bertl in with him. He just stands there, but no one comes near him because he’s so tall and big. That, and he sweats a lot.”

“Have they been together a long time?” Marco asks in curiosity, looking over at Jean and draining his glass.

“Yeah. I think they were probably together in high school, even if no one knew,” Jean comments thoughtfully, staring at where he thinks Reiner disappeared into the mosh pit. “I mean, they uh...” he hesitates, not wanting to talk about their personal business... but it’s Marco he’s talking to. “I’ve known _of_ them for a long time, but we reconnected again and became actual friends about two years ago.”

“Kind of like us,” Marco says with a warm smile.

Yes, exactly—minus the dicks and gratuitous sex. Too bad his reunion with Marco didn’t go the same way. 

Jean fights away his lewd thoughts and just blushes faintly.

“Kind of,” he says, moving on quickly. “Well, anyway, they have kind of a fucked up history. I don’t know the details, but they were in foster care together, and they have practically been attached at the hip since the eighth grade.” 

“I’m assuming this is being shared in confidence,” Marco says. Jean nods, and Marco smiles a little, making the universal “lips sealed and lock thrown away” motion over his mouth.

He’s so goddamn endearing that it makes Jean’s head spin.

The band plays a torturous hour and a half set, and Jean is ready to claw his eyes out by the end of it. Even Marco’s eye is twitching, and they’ve both put away two more tumblers of whiskey. Surprisingly, though, Marco’s holding his liquor pretty well for someone who doesn’t drink frequently.

“That was _awesome!_ ” Reiner exclaims, emerging from the crowd. Jean is absolutely sure that there are at least ten people coming out behind him in varying states of injury, eyeing Reiner warily. You take your chances when you enter a mosh pit in a dive bar, though.

“Uh huh,” Bertl says, rolling his eyes behind Reiner.

“I’m so pumped!” he says enthusiastically. “Let’s go to that gay bar. C’mon, Marco, you can be our token straight guy.”

Marco laughs awkwardly and looks at Jean; Jean rolls his eyes, and Bertl slaps Reiner in the arm.

“Come off your damn rage endorphin high and let’s go,” he says to Reiner. This earns Bertl a sloppy kiss and a grope from Reiner, and he doesn’t even try to pull away. 

“I don’t even know,” Jean says, rolling his eyes at his friends’ PDA antics and shaking his head at Marco.

Marco blushes a little as they continue to make out, and Jean taps Reiner on the shoulder impatiently.

“Earth to planet gay. Do you still want to go out?”

“Yeah, it’ll be awesome!” Reiner says enthusiastically, wiping the sweat off his forehead. 

Bertl snorts, but he takes Reiner’s hand and holds onto it.

They make their way out into the cold air—still not as frigid as it’s been recently—and start the walk toward the bar. Jean lets Reiner and Bertl go ahead of them, holding hands as Reiner rambles to Bertl about how awesome the show was.

“They’re really nice,” Marco laughs quietly, offering Jean a smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“So, you’re okay with a gay bar?” Jean asks cautiously, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving Marco a sidelong glance.

“Yeah, why not?” Marco asks with a shrug. “Do you think I won’t like it?”

“Well, no,” Jean says hesitantly. Then he realizes he’s being ridiculous, and stops asking—Marco said he’s okay with it, and when Marco makes a statement, he means it.

They finally stop about two blocks away at a small doorway with a nondescript awning over it. Jean’s never actually been to this particular bar, but he trusts Reiner and Bertl’s judgment. He spots a tiny little rainbow sticker in the corner of one of the windows, and to his surprise as they go in, the place is actually relatively large.

And really, really gay. There’s a dance floor, a few male go-go dancers on the bar, and a lot of people.

“Wow,” Marco remarks with wide eyes, staring up at the go-go dancers. One of them winks at him, and he immediately looks down and blushes.

“Welcome to somewhere over the rainbow,” Jean remarks wryly, and Marco laughs. “Blame it on Reiner.”

“No, it looks fun,” Marco says enthusiastically, looking around curiously. Jean has to admit that there _is_ a lot to look at. The decor is eclectic with lots of fabrics everywhere; the bar is made of some kind of fancy, black stone, and to Jean’s approval, it looks like they even have a decent liquor selection.

“Hey, Marco?” 

“Yeah?” Marco replies absently, still looking around.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom... do you mind hanging out with Reiner and Bertl for a few?”

“Sure,” Marco replies, smiling. “You want a drink?”

“I’ll wait,” Jean laughs. “You were right—too much whiskey to drink away the pain of that band.”

Marco returns his smile, and Jean feels a twinge in his chest when Marco immediately receives a few interested glances. For the first time ever, Jean is secretly happy that Marco is straight.

It’s a thought that makes no sense, and as he leaves Marco to his own devices at the bar with Reiner and Bertl, he realizes it’s actually pathetic and creepy once he recognizes the emotion as jealousy.

He goes into the men’s room and stares at himself in the mirror, thankful that there’s no one in there yet. It’s still relatively early, although the bar is already pretty crowded.

If he wasn’t here with Marco, he might think about looking to get laid, considering that mosh-happy Reiner is undoubtedly going to pass out as soon as he and Bertl go home. He knows he looks halfway decent, since he remembered to wear a little eyeliner, and he’s been told his tight Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt is at least flattering.

But all the fucks he could give right now, because the only person he wants to think he’s hot is Marco. Straight, preppy, tight-laced Marco.

Jean groans to himself and shakes his head, vowing to stop obsessively thinking about Marco and just try to have a good time. It’s obvious at this point that hanging out with Bertl and Reiner—as gay as they’re acting—isn’t going to get him any answers. Marco is acting the same way he always does, unaffected by a change in his usual scenery. It’s just another reason Jean likes him so much.

When he’s making his way back to the bar, though, halfway there he spots Bertl and Reiner standing a few feet away from their former spot.

“Why aren’t you with Marco?” he exclaims, frowning at both of them.

“Uh...” Reiner says awkwardly. Bertl swallows hard, and Jean just stares at both of them.

“He’s, um, talking to some guy,” Bertl says awkwardly, cringing. “It got to the point where us standing there was weird, so... we just sort of decided to come over here.”

“Don’t worry,” Reiner pipes in, as if it will help, “we’re watching him to make sure he’s okay... um, but...”

And sure enough, when Jean looks over, Marco is sitting there at the bar talking to a guy who’s sort of attractive, but also kind of crazy looking.

“To be honest, Jean,” Bertl says softly, “I have no idea what this kid’s deal is.”

“Yeah,” Reiner echoes in a bemused voice, “gotta admit. For the first time ever, even my gaydar is scrambled.”

“What are they even _talking_ about?” Jean asks in a tense voice, his entire body stiff.

“Ivy League stuff,” Bertl and Reiner both say at the same time.

“Jean, don’t be a moron and say something stupid,” Reiner immediately warns when he sees the look on Jean’s face.

“Whatever,” he says in a flat voice. “I’m... going to make sure he’s okay. That guy looks psycho.”

The simultaneous groans both Bertl and Reiner give are distant as he strides over to where Marco and the mystery guy who’s obviously trying to get into his pants are sitting at the bar.

“Hey, Jean!” Marco says with a friendly smile, waving. “This is Eren.”

“Hey,” Eren says dismissively, turning toward Jean. “What’s up?”

“Eren is studying Criminal Law at the same school I used to go to,” Marco says. If Jean’s not mistaken, too, Marco actually sounds... impressed.

“Um, okay. Hi,” Jean says, sizing up Eren. “So what made you go to school for that?”

Eren puts on a haughty face that Jean immediately despises, and says self-righteously, “I’m going to make sure all criminals get put behind bars. I’ll rid the world of scum bags.”

“Because that’s realistic,” Jean mutters. As soon as Marco cringes, Jean realizes he’s being embarrassing and tries to amend the statement. “Um,” he stutters, “I mean... not to dismiss your ideals or whatever, yeah...”

That seems to at least appease Marco, and he smoothly continues the conversation.

“Jean is my best friend here in Trost,” Marco says with a smile. The way that Eren turns back toward Marco makes Jean want to scream. He intentionally moves so that their knees are pressed together, and leans forward with an intense gaze to stare right into Marco’s eyes. If there was ever a “fuck me” face more obvious than the one that Eren is wearing right now, Jean’s never seen it.

“That’s great,” Eren says, not looking at Jean.

For a minute, Jean at least feels a sense of triumph that Eren has no idea that Marco is straight; but then, it suddenly makes him feel like shit.

“Marco, can I talk to you for a minute?” Jean asks.

Marco cocks his head to the side with raised eyebrows and nods. “Sure.”

He hops off the stool he’s been sitting on, and Jean pulls him aside.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a vehement whisper.

“Huh?”

“That guy thinks you’re flirting with him... I mean... um...”

“He does?” Marco squeaks, but then slowly, realization creeps over his face. “I mean... yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

“I don’t mean that you owe him anything,” Jean amends, but then he can’t help himself. “But it’s just... don’t you care about anyone else’s feelings?” He knows he’s starting to go off the deep end and is about to say some fucked up things, but one look back at Eren (who, in fact, has started talking to someone else) makes him lose any sense of self-preservation he may have had left.

“How do you know he doesn’t like you?” Jean demands, throwing his hands up to reinforce his point. “What if you’re about to break his heart?” 

He can feel Bertl and Reiner staring at them, but they know well enough to keep away once Jean starts ranting. The lights and people behind him fade away as he feels the hurt start to rise like floodwater inside of him. 

“Um...” Marco starts, his dark eyes wide. 

“You can’t play with other people’s feelings, Marco,” he says, and he hopes the tears in his voice aren’t obvious. 

“Jean, I wasn’t doing anything except talking,” Marco replies, frowning. He’s doesn’t seem angry, though, so much as confused. “He didn’t propose to me.”

“Well, how do you know he didn’t want to?” Jean demands, his voice rising.

He tells himself to stop; wills his mouth to stop moving. Jean’s inability to keep his thoughts to himself has gotten him in trouble more times than he can count, and lost him more friends than he assumes he’ll ever even know.

“Don’t you care?” he asks, scowling fiercely now. “That’s really messed up.”

“Jean,” Marco says calmly, making Jean blink twice, “calm down.” He puts his hands on both of Jean’s shoulders and stares him in the face. “I don’t know what you’re upset about, but you’re taking it out on me.”

Jean’s mouth opens and nothing comes out; it closes, opens, and then closes again. It seems Marco learned an important lesson from that time after the failed date with Mikasa. Now, he just looks at Jean with a concerned expression, searching his face for answers.

Finally, all Jean can whisper while staring hard at the floor is, “Why are you such a good fucking friend to me?”

Marco gently pulls him into a hug and rubs his back. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he murmurs, “but when you’re ready to tell me, you can.”

Jean just stands there, not sure what he should do; and then it becomes apparent that Marco isn’t letting go anytime soon. 

So he indulges himself, wrapping his arms around Marco in return and resting his head in the crook of Marco’s shoulder.

The pounding of the music seems distant, the taste of alcohol doesn’t even register, and the smell of the bar and cheap cologne is completely replaced by Marco’s scent—the clean smell of his skin and the soft texture of his shirt, the tickle of his hair against Jean’s nose, and the feel of firm, sure hands pressed against Jean’s back.

“Everyone’s going to think we’re gay,” Jean whispers after a minute, but Marco doesn’t let go.

“So what?” is all he replies.

They stand there for a long time, and in that time, something changes all due to a very minor gesture—a nothing gesture that could mean anything, a simple movement that can be measured in a matter of inches.

Something changes when Marco turns his face and kisses Jean’s hair.

Jean’s not even sure whether it was a kiss. He’s not sure what feelings are welling up in him when he feels Marco’s mouth pressed against his temple. It could just be Marco turning his head to say something, and they’re so close, his mouth just coincidentally brushed against Jean’s head. Or maybe Jean moved at just the right time and caused accidental contact. Maybe it wasn’t even Marco’s mouth he felt, but just his cheek.

Jean’s first instinct is to immediately ask Bertl or Reiner after the fact if they saw what happened, but then he realizes that even if they did, they wouldn’t know either.

This is what one might call a gray area, and Jean realizes suddenly that he’s been so fixated on Marco being straight, that he never stopped to think that maybe there simply isn’t an answer to whether his feelings are misplaced. Maybe there’s no black and white conclusion, no cut and dried verdict.

So Jean kisses Marco’s shoulder in return and leaves it at that. He does it softly, so it could be anything—his own cheek brushing Marco’s collar bone, even his nose pressed there—and as he expects, Marco doesn’t pull away or ask questions.

Finally, after what seems like a very long time (and probably is), Marco pulls away first.

Jean is confused, though, when he sees Marco is sporting an enraptured, excited expression.

“Jean!” he exclaims in delight, grabbing Jean’s hands. “They’re playing Britney! Will you come dance with me?”

“Oh my fucking god,” Jean groans, laughing. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“I totally am,” Marco confirms with a huge, ridiculous grin. “Please?”

“I don’t dance. And you do realize that you just became the gayest guy here, right?”

“Pleeease?” Marco repeats, drawing out the word pleadingly.

“Okay, fine,” Jean grumbles, letting Marco drag him toward the dance floor flashing with strobe lights and smoke. “I’ll go, but I’m _not_ dancing.”

Marco dances—badly—and looks like a wounded gazelle hopping around to the worst pop music Jean’s ever heard. Contrary to his former declaration, however, Jean does not stand with his arms folded dismissively the entire time.

Reiner mercilessly tortures him about it for a month afterward and laughs hysterically any time Britney Spears comes up.

Despite this, Jean does not regret his decision. And whether he’ll admit it or not, he _might_ have even had fun.


	6. Jean sometimes wishes he never fucking learned the word fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco learns how to waltz, Jean apologizes for the past, and they both get a good night's sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has light drug use in the form of two hits of pot in one minor section. Just FYI for anyone who might be sensitive to that! <3

_Jean has his bottom lip stuck out and his arms crossed over his chest, scowling at the ground. He’s staring at a friendship safety pin stuck in one of his black High Tops, and he hates it because he thinks it makes him look like a kid._

_“Jean,” his mother says, sitting down next to him on the wooden steps with a sigh, “don’t you want to go play with the other kids?”_

_“No.”_

_“This is the last day you’re going to be here,” she says, wrapping her arm lightly around Jean’s shoulders. “Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friends?”_

_He pulls away and shifts his entire body in the other direction from his mother; he feels stupid she’s here, too._

_He leans down to pick at the beaded safety pin on his shoe resentfully, but even now, he doesn’t have the heart to pull it off._

_“Do I get to say goodbye to Marco?” he finally murmurs haltingly._

_There’s an extended pause, and Jean doesn’t look up; he just waits, picking at the beads harder. With just a little more force, he could tear it off._

_“Only if he wants you to,” Jean’s mother finally sighs._

_Given the fact that the reason Jean is sulking on the stairs of a camp bunk with his mother is because he shoved Marco Bodt and told him to go fuck himself, this is a reasonable response._

_Jean doesn’t have any friends he wants to say goodbye to, though, because Jean doesn’t have any friends to begin with. And he’s still too angry at Marco—his only friend—to muster up the courage to admit he desperately wants to apologize._

_Nevertheless, he finally leaves the safety pin alone._

_“I don’t care,” Jean declares, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets roughly. “This place sucks. Everyone’s a liar, because god doesn’t exist.”_

_Jean is testing his mother, and to his surprise, she doesn’t react as dramatically as he’s expecting._

_“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” she replies calmly, standing up. “But that’s no reason to push your friend.”_

_“He’s not my friend,” Jean mumbles, staring at the ground and kicking at the grass, “because he’s a liar, too.” He whirls around suddenly to point vehemently at his mother—who, this time, looks surprised because she’s not expecting it—and yells, “Fuck you, fuck god, and fuck Marco.”_

_And with that, he takes off in a sprint, not looking back as his mother desperately calls after him; he hopes the stupid safety pin tears off._

_He learned the word “fuck” a while ago, but he never really felt the need to say it until the last few weeks. Suddenly, it seemed to roll of his tongue delightfully whenever he got mad, whenever the rage built up to be too much, and he needed to scream to get it out._

_His mother blamed it on the music he had started listening to; ironically, most of the music Jean listens to doesn’t actually contain any bad language. Usually, it’s just a lot of synths and sad._

_But now “fuck” doesn’t seem to be enough; he knows he’s in big trouble for saying it to his mother, and he actually feels a little bad, but he pushes all the feelings away as he runs. He doesn’t want to think—he doesn’t want to remember how Marco cried, how he’d stared at Jean like he’d been stabbed instead of just pushed, and then how Jean had just stared back for a minute in shock at his own outburst, before screaming a harsh, “fuck you.”_

_When he finally stops running, he’s somewhere deep in the forest. He knows they’ll be looking for him, and that he’ll probably be grounded for the rest of his life—as if he wasn’t going to be already after the meeting with the camp counselor, Jean’s mother, and Marco’s parents._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sinking to his knees and putting his hands to his face as the tears start to fall. “You’re so stupid, Marco. Fuck you.”_

_A bird calls, and the trees are lonely, even though it’s summer._

_“I’ll never be like you,” he whispers vehemently, angrily wiping his eyes after he manages to stop crying. “You can’t believe in shit you can’t see.”_

_Jean and his mother don’t speak the entire way home in the car, and when Jean gets back to his bedroom, he finally pries the safety pin off his shoe._

_He fully intends to throw it into the creek behind his house; instead, he pretends not to sniffle as he pushes it into his mother’s sewing kit, hoping it’ll get lost._

_But he can’t bring himself to let it go completely._

= = =

 _“Wow, I’m so stupid,”_ Marco says on the phone, his voice staticky as he talks. _“I can’t believe I forgot my keys at your place.”_

Jean smiles a little, lounging back on his couch and eating peanut butter directly out of the jar with a spoon.

“You’re not stupid,” Jean corrects, rolling his eyes. “You’re obviously just getting old and losing your memory.”

_“You’re a jerk.”_

“Good. When you want to come by?”

_“I don’t know... like four? I’ve got a thing tonight.”_

“A thing?” Jean asks curiously, sitting up slightly.

_“I’ll explain later. Don’t ask.”_

Jean snorts with a shrug. “Okay.”

 _“Um, Jean...”_ Marco says softly, and Jean’s heart clenches, as it does _every_ time Marco sounds serious and says his name.

“Yeah?” he asks, his mouth dry.

_“Are you eating peanut butter out of a jar?”_

He blinks, almost laughs, but then nondescriptly slides the jar onto the coffee table, as if Marco can see him.

“... No?”

_“Oh my god, Jean, at least order out.”_

“What?” he replies sheepishly, grinning at little as he rubs the back of his head. “It’s got protein.”

 _“I’ll see you at four. Do you want me to bring you food?”_ When Jean hesitates, Marco adds in a tantalizing voice, _“My mom made it.”_

“Oh.”

_“I’ll bring it in tupperware.”_

Jean’s mouth almost waters, and he tries to sound nonchalant as he replies, “Um, that’d be cool.”

Marco snorts, and Jean can hear the smile in his voice as he says, _“See you in a few hours?”_

Jean’s heart flutters a little, and he nods. “Yeah, see you then.”

He hangs up the phone, staring at the peanut butter jar, and then back at the phone.

“A ‘thing?’” he asks out loud, as if somehow the peanut butter jar will answer. 

Well, at least it’s not a date with dark-haired, crazy Criminal Law major.

Jean sneers at the thought of Eren; then goes to put the peanut butter back in the cupboard and tidy up a little so Marco doesn’t think he’s living a double life as a hobo in a squat.

When Marco shows up, Jean blinks in surprise at what he sees when he swings the door open.

Marco is dressed in the preppiest thing Jean has _ever_ seen.

“Are you going to a country club?” he blurts out, his eyes wide. Marco cringes a little, but then laughs.

“No, but close.” He takes a few steps into Jean’s apartment, and even he looks nonplussed about the outfit. He’s wearing a green blazer with some kind of complex insignia on the breast, a white button-down shirt that’s done up to the neck and fastened with a tie bearing the same insignia as the jacket, topped off with a pair of perfectly pressed khakis and brown loafers.

“I have this _function,_ ” Marco says, making a face, “at my old high school. It’s only a few hours away, but I have to show up.”

“And wear that?” Jean guesses, gesturing vaguely at Marco’s person in mild horror.

“Yup.”

“Suck.”

“Kind of. I didn’t even like going to school there, even though the whole point was to provide me with a stellar education.” Marco is sporting a serious frown, and Jean gives him a sympathetic look.

“Well,” he says, “come in. Have some tea or something before you split. You got time?”

“Yeah,” Marco says. “I have to meet Annie at seven.”

Jean smiles and pretends his stomach didn’t just drop.

“Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “gotcha. Is that your girlfriend?”

Marco actually laughs out loud, and Jean feels relief course through him.

“No way. Annie is a friend of mine from high school. She’s actually _survived_ college so far,” Marco says, his voice growing softer. “She’s not exactly an idealist.”

Jean wants to make the obvious connection that she’s not like Marco, but then it occurs to him that the reason Marco dropped out of school was because of that very fact.

“I dunno,” Jean says, looking at the floor with a shrug and shoving his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you should join the Peace Corps or something.”

That gets an outright laugh from Marco, and Jean meets his eyes, smiling.

Marco’s face softens unexpectedly, and his dark eyes lock with Jean’s.

Jean’s heart skips about two beats, and he blinks; if he stares into Marco’s eyes for much longer, he’s _going_ to kiss that adorable, half-smiling mouth, and he’s _going_ to ruin everything, so he turns away abruptly.

“Um,” he says, “I mean, whatever. That’s probably a dumb idea.”

“What would you do if you could do anything?” Marco asks unexpectedly, his voice curious.

Jean laughs weakly and walks away into the kitchen with a shrug. “Win the lottery?”

“That’s not very ambitious.”

“I’m not ambitious,” Jean replies easily. “Ambition is for suckers who can’t deal with just having it good.”

“Like me?” Marco asks softly.

“No,” Jean says, scowling as he turns sharply, holding the tea tin in one hand as he stares at Marco. “That’s nothing like you. You’re... you’re too fucking idealistic. But...” Jean grits his teeth. “I’m not saying it’s bad, but it’s _hard._ ”

Marco gives a sad little smile. “Yeah, it kind of is. I guess that’s why I live on my parents’ couch.”

Jean sighs and looks at the floor, tracing the patterns of the threadbare carpet idly. “I didn’t mean it that way. I think you’re amazing.”

It’s starting to rain outside, and he listens to the raindrops pat on the window as they stand there without speaking. It extends into a full minute, until Marco takes a few steps forward and takes the tea tin out of Jean’s hand.

“Thanks,” he says simply, and moves to get the spoons and fill the teakettle with water. Without further commentary, he puts the kettle on the stove to boil and turns to Jean. “So, you know what’s even _worse_ about tonight?”

Jean raises an eyebrow, leaning against the kitchen doorframe and folding his arms across his chest. “What could _possibly_ be worse than that jacket?”

“I have to dance.”

_“Dance?”_

“Waltz, to be precise.”

“You have to _waltz?_ ” Jean exclaims. “Where are you going? Buckingham fucking Palace?”

“No, but everyone is just as snotty. And most of them really like Jesus.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Jean groans. Then, realizing it’s ironic, adds a decisive, “Fuck that.”

“I actually have no idea how to dance,” Marco confides, laughing a little.

He’s focusing on the stove, wearing that stupid jacket and looking preppier than ever, the slight curl of a self-deprecating smile on his lips and that smattering of freckles standing out on his cheeks.

Fuck, he’s cute. He’s always been cute.

Jean clears his throat, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Um,” he says awkwardly.

“I’m going to have to get Annie to explain it to me on the drive there,” he adds, rolling his eyes skyward. “ _And_ now it’s raining. I didn’t even bring an umbrella and—”

“I can teach you how to dance,” Jean interjects awkwardly. He can already feel the blush rising to his cheeks, but he figures he might as well offer. He _does_ know how to dance due to the fact his mother made him go to lessons; what he’ll _never_ admit, though, is that he loved it as a kid.

Obviously, his offer also has _nothing_ to do with the fact that he gets to touch Marco. Clearly nothing to do with it at all.

“You know how to waltz?” Marco asks in surprise. His mouth is straight now, and Jean tries not to stare at his lips.

“Yeah, my mom made me take lessons,” he explains sheepishly, rolling his eyes. “You want me to teach you a few steps? No biggie. It’s easy.”

“That’d be great!” Marco says enthusiastically.

The water in the kettle hasn’t started to boil yet, so they leave it to heat up and go into the living room.

Jean pushes the battered coffee table out of the way and slides the heavy blue pull-out couch back a few inches.

“So, I figure this will be easier with music,” he says rationally, “since that’s how you’re going to have to know how to move.”

“What kind of music?” Marco asks curiously.

“I don’t know,” Jean says, shrugging off his blue flannel shirt and throwing it onto the couch, donning his faded Smiths t-shirt. “Some old timey shit? I’ve got some Ella Fitzgerald.”

“ _You_ have Ella Fitzgerald?” Marco asks in surprise.

“Of course,” Jean says, puffing out his chest and affronted at the very possibility that he _wouldn’t._ “Anyone who doesn’t appreciate the jazz greats is, by default, a douche bag.”

Marco gives a soft little smile and snort that makes Jean’s heart leap into his throat. The jacket makes his shoulders look broad, but he still looks about twelve. It’s the freckles; or maybe it’s just because Jean remembers him that way, and will always see him as his best friend from summer camp he wishes he hadn’t cursed out.

Jean opens the record player and bends at eye level to study the needle. It’s habit, but then he almost jumps when Marco appears, holding the record carefully in the sleeve.

Jean never lets _anyone_ touch his records, and when it’s happened by unsuspecting visitors, they usually never come back.

When Marco does it, Jean just turns and takes the record out of his fingers, and says, “Thanks.”

Marco smiles at him. “No problem. I know your system.”

Jean has a complex system of organization for the hundreds of vinyl records in his apartment, and Marco has apparently spent enough time there to pick it up.

Jean slides the record carefully out of its sleeve and sets it gently on the platter, picking up the needle and pulling it gingerly to start it spinning.

It crackles in that way that always makes a little joy jump through Jean in sweet anticipation, and then jazz fills the living room. There’s something very appropriate about listening to Ella Fitzgerald on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. He tries not to think about how perfect it feels to be listening with Marco, though.

He turns to Marco with a smile plastered across his face that he hopes doesn’t betray his nervousness as Ella’s voice croons through the air.

“So,” Jean says, trying to sound authoritative and keep his voice steady, “let me lead to start. You put your hand here,” he takes Marco’s hand gingerly and positions it against his own shoulder blade, “and I put my hand here,” he continues, lightly placing his own hand against Marco’s back.

He clasps their free hands together, and Marco is staring at him with wide eyes as they stand there. The fabric of the jacket feels oddly formal, but Marco’s bare hand feels warm and soft in Jean’s.

“Okay,” Jean says breathlessly, “You’re going to step forward, then to the side, then close it back up.”

They try a few steps, and then end up laughing as Marco almost falls a few times; he picks it up quickly, though. It’s not actually that hard.

“Now you lead,” Jean says, grinning at him, “because you’re going to have to lead with your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Marco says quietly, his voice suddenly serious. “I already told you that.”

Jean immediately drops his eyes to stare at the stupid insignia on Marco’s blazer; it’s got a unicorn at the center of its motif—a common symbol for Jesus.

“So, I’m supposed to lead?”

Jean looks up in surprise, not intending to meet Marco’s eyes; but then it unavoidable as he looks up slightly. Marco’s only about an inch taller, but right now it seems more like a foot.

The strain of Ella Fitzgerald still pours over them, and Jean fights the urge to close his eyes.

“Yeah,” he finally replies, his mouth suddenly dry. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Marco says softly. “I’m just saying, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s cool, but we’re not dating.”

“’Kay,” Jean says in a small voice, feeling like a kicked puppy. He’s disgusted with himself for his own weakness, but the crippling feeling of making Marco uncomfortable is far more pervasive and strong. 

He lets out a startled sound as Marco suddenly switches the arrangement of their hands and swings Jean around, leading him through the same series of steps Jean just showed him, only much faster.

Marco good at picking things up quickly, and Jean is reminded that it’s no accident that Marco got into an Ivy League school. He’s brilliant.

Suddenly, there’s a click, and then static. The record has finished; and then, just to make the point, the kettle starts to whistle faintly.

Marco doesn’t move, and Jean doesn’t move; and Jean can’t help the gasp that comes out of his mouth as Marco presses his cheek very lightly against Jean’s temple.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Jean whispers.

Then, they just stand like that, and Jean want to kiss Marco so badly it aches. Nevertheless, he forces himself to let go of Marco’s hand first and step away.

“Kettle,” he says, clearing his throat. “Good luck with the dancing.”

As he walks away, he hopes Marco doesn’t notice the blush that’s steadily rising up the back of his neck.

He gets Marco a cup of tea, and they sit on the couch at opposite ends, making awkward small talk.

“Here,” Jean says when Marco gets up to leave, thanking him for the lesson and the tea, “take an umbrella.”

Marco takes Jean’s blue umbrella with a little smile that strikes Jean as bittersweet, and he’s not even sure why.

= = =

Jean can’t sleep. It keeps raining, and all he can think of is Marco with Annie, waltzing around some weird ballroom made of crystal, decorated with lots of gold crucifixes... or something. Private schools are bizarre and weird.

He keeps staring at the digital clock, and by the time it reads two a.m. in glowing red letters, he decides it’s time to take a hit or two off his pipe. He can’t sleep, and he can’t stop thinking about Marco.

More to the point: he can’t stop thinking about Marco’s lips so close to his temple.

“Goddamn it,” he hisses, reaching over to the turn on the light next to his bed. There’s a collection of spare change, some rolling paper, and an incense burner shoved to the corner, about to fall off the nightstand.

He pulls out the drawer to fumble around for his bag of weed and pipe, blinking heavily as he sits up and his eyes get used to the light.

The sheets fall around his waist and the cold air of the room hits him; he shivers a little, since all he’s still wearing is his Smiths t-shirt and a pair of thin boxers. The rain has made everything cold and dreary, and he’s glad he’s still got his heavy winter comforter on the bed.

He packs his pipe and flicks the lighter, taking a quick hit. It’ll only take one or two to just make him pass out and calm him down. 

Jean isn’t a frequent pot-smoker, but he doesn’t mind one or two hits to relax. He figures it’s akin to having a drink—and, in fact, less harmful—and it’s just so common these days he doesn’t feel a trace of guilt doing it. His mother, in fact, was the one who suggested it, given that Jean can sometimes be a bit high strung. (She put it more tactfully, of course, but Jean couldn’t help but agree at the time.)

Just as he’s starting to feel more relaxed, however, there’s a faint noise from outside the bedroom door. He looks over in surprise, and listens carefully. 

It’s knocking, and his eyebrows raise. What in the fuck...

The mattress squeaks as he gets up—and just in case—he grabs the baseball bat lying in the corner. It’s a move he’s only seen used in the movies before, but it can’t hurt.

He swings the bedroom door open, and the living room looks undisturbed in the dark. He curses internally when he realizes he never put the Ella Fitzgerald record back in its sleeve; he’d been so shaken up by the strange moment with Marco that he’d completely forgot.

The floor is cold, too, since the carpet doesn’t exactly provide much insulation. There’s another knock, and Jean relaxes; it’s late, but it doesn’t sound like someone is trying to break in.

New anxiety floods him, though, wondering who could be knocking on his door at this hour. 

He looks through the peephole, and his eyes widen as he immediately steps back to swing the door open.

“Marco?” he exclaims in shock.

“Um,” Marco says, looking at Jean with wide eyes. He’s drenched, and Jean realizes the blue umbrella that he’s holding is broken. “I, uh... wanted to return this to you.”

And with that bizarre declaration, he sniffles a little.

“What are you _doing_ you fucking nut?” Jean demands, pulling him into the apartment. “You’re going to get sick.”

Marco sniffles again, and Jean realizes it’s not from the cold.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

“Nothing,” Marco says in a harsh whisper. “I just remembered _why_ I dropped out of college. And, um,” he says, and he shudders, “you just get sick of being asked why you couldn’t hack it.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean says softly. “That’s really fucked up.”

“I couldn’t deal with going home,” Marco says in a tiny voice. “I’ll just get asked more questions about who I met, if it helped me get past my ‘issues’...” His voice trails off, and before Jean knows what he’s doing, he’s got Marco in a tight hug.

“I’m going to get you wet,” Marco says, his voice wavering. But he doesn’t resist, and rests his head against Jean’s shoulder.

“I don’t care,” Jean murmurs, running his hand over Marco’s back comfortingly. 

“I’m sorry I just showed up out of nowhere,” he says, his body tensing, “like a real crazy person.”

“You’re not crazy,” Jean says softly, not caring about how it might look and just following his instincts as he lifts his hand to stroke Marco’s wet hair. “You can always come here—you can always come to me.”

Marco lets out a little sigh, but he finally just nods.

“C’mon,” Jean says gently, pulling away. “Take that stupid outfit off and get into something comfortable, yeah? You can borrow some of my creepy goth shit.”

That earns a little laugh out of Marco, but it’s quiet and timid.

Marco pulls on the dry clothes quickly as Jean goes to hang the sopping wet private school ensemble in the bathroom. 

When he returns, he tries not to look too closely at the way his own t-shirt fits Marco so snugly. It’s close to laundry day, so Marco ends up with a pair of pajama pants that are at least three inches too short (his legs are actually _that_ long) and an old, faded Nirvana t-shirt.

He’s standing in Jean’s bedroom awkwardly, both arms wrapped around himself, looking at the floor, as if unsure now of what to do.

“I know you’re not into drugs,” Jean says carefully as he sits down on his bed, “but I have some awesome pot. It’s not strong, and it’s just really relaxing. A few hits would put you out into a fucking _beautiful_ sleep all night.”

He holds up the pipe shaped like a unicorn, and that gets a smile out of Marco.

“Is that for real?”

“I thought it was funny.”

“You would,” Marco snorts, and finally sits down gingerly next to Jean on the bed. He sighs, eyeing the pipe, and finally says, “Okay.”

Jean smiles. “It’ll be fine. It’s not like getting wasted or doing _heroin_ or something. I just do it to relax, not to get fucked up or anything.”

Marco watches as Jean demonstrates how to inhale and hold the small hole closed so the smoke goes into his lungs. 

When Jean hands over the lighter and pipe to Marco, though, he looks at it warily. “Just try it,” Jean encourages, “the worst that can happen is you don’t inhale at the right time.”

“I don’t want to... waste your... um, marijuana,” Marco says, his dark eyes shifting from the pipe to stare at Jean.

Jean snorts and rolls his eyes. “I have plenty.”

Marco takes a deep breath and flicks the lighter, holding his pinkie awkwardly over the small hole, and tries to inhale. He inhales for a little too long, though, and gets far more than Jean thought he would. He coughs a little as he exhales carefully, but otherwise, doesn’t completely choke.

“Um,” he says, his eyes watering a little, “that’s kind of strong.”

“Yeah,” Jean nods, putting the pipe in the drawer, “you’re good with just one hit. Feel okay?”

“Yeah,” Marco nods. “Uh, am I going to start seeing colors and stars?”

Jean laughs outright and pats him on the shoulder. “No, I promise. That’s hallucinogenics.”

“Oh,” Marco says, flushing a little and blinking heavily. “Okay.” 

They just sit there awkwardly for a minute, listening to the rain.

“Um,” he says awkwardly, looking down at the comforter and picking at some lint, “you remember when we were in Bible camp, and when I had a bad dream or got into a fight, you’d let me... um...” 

“Sleep with me?” Marco supplies bluntly.

“Yeah.” Jean attempts to school his expression into neutrality, and doesn’t have the courage to meet Marco’s eyes.

Then his heart jumps into his throat when Marco says quietly, “That’d be nice.”

“Okay,” Jean replies breathlessly, not quite believing his ears.

They climb into Jean’s bed together and Jean reaches over to shut off the light, and then gets behind Marco to embrace him.

When they were camp, Jean got into a fight almost every day; if he didn’t, he did something else to get himself in trouble. He was a loner, but Marco was always there with him, and at night, he’d climb into Jean’s bunk and sleep with him if it’d been a particularly rough day.

 _“Stop hitting people,”_ Marco would tell him quietly.

 _“They started it,_ ” Jean would reply petulantly, but Marco would never leave him.

Now, Jean presses up against Marco’s back, his arm wrapped securely around Marco’s body. He pushes his face against the back of Marco’s hair—it smells good and it’s soft.

“Do you remember,” Marco says softly in the dark, the rain still patting on the window, “those stupid walkie-talkies we made that one summer? Where you were supposed to be able to talk to god anytime you wanted?”

Jean snorts derisively and makes a disgusted sound. “That was kind of messed up... like, you could only talk to god through something a church gave you.” Marco laughs a little. “But yeah,” he continues, “I remember.”

“I was cleaning out my closet,” Marco says, shifting to settle more soundly against Jean, “and I found them the other day.”

“No shit?” Jean replies, making an amused noise in his throat. “I got rid of all that crap by the time I was in junior high.”

Marco’s voice is very soft, and almost raw, when he replies, “Did you know you wrote our names on them, so we could talk to each other, instead of god?”

Jean feels his throat tighten unexpectedly, and his closes his eyes.

“I’m really sorry I told you to fuck off,” he says softly. “I still think about it.”

“It’s okay,” Marco whispers. “But you know... you were right. You were right about everything, even when you were twelve.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jean retorts harshly. “Why would you say that?”

“Because,” Marco breathes, “you shouldn’t believe in things just because they seem nice or good.”

“You’re not a pessimist, Marco,” Jean replies, and he can’t resist the urge to stroke Marco’s hair. When he does, though, Marco just sighs, as if it feels nice.

“Not being a pessimist is what made me drop out of school.”

“Well, fuck them, because they don’t deserve you.”

Marco gives a shuddery sigh, and Jean tightens his grip.

“You’ve always been a realist, Jean.”

“Or just a fucking wuss,” Jean blurts out without thinking, and then he snaps his mouth shut. He’s never actually _admitted_ it.

Marco just sighs, and then to Jean’s surprise, rolls over so that they’re facing each other, pressing his face against Jean’s chest and curling up close.

“Go to sleep,” Jean says quietly, and he can’t keep the tenderness out of his voice.

“Thanks, Jean,” Marco whispers. He sounds woozy, probably from the pot.

“You’ll sleep really well,” Jean assures him, holding him close, “that stuff is awesome.”

“I know,” Marco sighs dreamily. “The pot, and you.”

And with that, he drops off to sleep, dead to the world.

Jean doesn’t let go for the entire night, and when the alarm sounds the next morning, he turns it off and then just lies there.

Marco is still snoring softly, his head under Jean’s chin and his entire body pressed as close as possible. Jean strokes his hair, and Marco’s hand tightens reflexively where it’s pressed against Jean’s back.

Jean realizes right then that he could live like this for the rest of his life.

“Marco?” he asks softly, shifting a little.

“Mm?” Marco hums, not moving an inch.

“It’s eight.”

“Few more minutes?” Marco mutters sleepily, stretching a little and then resettling against Jean, starting to snore again.

“Sure,” Jean replies softly, and closes his eyes again.


	7. Jean is—   never mind because Marco fucking Bodt is kissing him (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner tells stories, Marco shops for housewares, and Jean comes clean.
> 
> (Double upload!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being longer than I first thought, but it's truly one chapter, so I split into two parts and uploaded it at the same time. Bonus upload! XD (i.e. Chapter 7 & 8 are actually one chapter)
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue... because nothing ever stays the same.

Jean feels good.

Jean feels discouraged.

Jean feels sad.

Jean... is fucking confused.

He has spent the past two weeks pressing his face against the spot where Marco slept in his bed. He still has the clothes Marco wore and he doesn’t want to wash them. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself, or what that night meant. They’d woken up the next morning, and even then, it hadn’t been awkward. Marco had made breakfast, they’d compromised on a music selection—more jazz—and then sat at Jean’s tiny kitchen table, eating as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

The problem is that, for Jean, it was painfully domestic; and, to complicate matters, made him very happy.

To Marco, though, it was just a comforting sleepover after a bad night with his best friend.

At least that’s what Jean tells himself, because letting his mind stray toward the possibility that Marco viewed it as more is just too scary to ponder. 

He feels like every time he talks to Marco, he’s going to give away how he feels. When they’re in the car, he tries not to touch Marco too much. When they’re having lunch together, he tries not to panic when he starts wondering what it’d be like to go on a real date with Marco. Which is patently ridiculous, since Jean hates the formal idea of a date, but he finds that with Marco, maybe it’d actually be fun. Maybe he’d want to go out and have dinner like a traditional couple, because he knows Marco would probably like it.

But then Jean rebukes himself for his own silliness, trying to push the ridiculous thoughts out of his mind; because the more he thinks of those things, the more painful it becomes.

Bertl’s words ring in his head, though... “What if.” So many what if’s, and he’s afraid to flat out ask. Jean has always been a straightforward person, but he’s never cared enough about another person’s reaction to restrain himself from speaking his mind.

Marco has become the exception to that rule.

After what turns into weeks of obsessing about it—and getting weird looks from Marco every time Jean jerks away when they touch—Jean hasn’t made any progress in deciding what to do.

But one thing he does know is that if he doesn’t follow Bertl’s advice, Marco is going to eventually date someone who isn’t Jean—it’s simply inevitable. 

He can picture it clearly: Marco would start seeing some wholesome girl he’d bring home to meet his parents. Then, they’d date for a while and do all kinds of gross, romantic things, like go on vacation together and hold hands in public and go on dinner dates. Eventually, they’d get their own apartment, make it into a home, and own an adorable cat. Every day, Marco would make dinner and they’d eat together, being all disgusting and lovey-dovey in their small, cozy kitchen. Maybe eventually they’d get married, and be together forever, holding each other every night in their bed.

Yes, that’s exactly what would happen.

Jean is also self-aware enough, after thinking up this very specific series of events, to realize that he desperately wants the imaginary “wholesome girl” to be replaced with “Jean Kirschstein.” And it becomes apparent how serious his feelings really are—how bad this really is.

Bertl and Reiner were right—he’s in love with Marco. 

Because Marco. Because his stupid smile. Because Britney Spears on vinyl.

Jean knows he has to come clean. It just has to happen; Jean can’t keep living in limbo anymore. It’s driving him crazy, and once Marco starts dating someone else, Jean isn’t going to have a chance.

“Okay,” he says to his own reflection, wiping the fogged up mirror in the bathroom. He’s just gotten out of the shower, and he’s going to practice, facing himself head-on.

“Marco,” he says, trying to adjust his smile so that it’s inviting, “I have something I need to tell you. Remember that time I almost cried because you were talking to a guy at a gay bar and...” He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows, wondering if that makes him look less threatening, and then his face falls. He groans, because he just looks crazy.

He takes a deep breath, adjusts the towel he has wrapped around his waist, and tries again.

“So, I’ve been thinking and—” 

Nope. Too much like a break-up conversation.

“Remember when I danced to Britney Spears with you, and—”

Groan.

“Do you think you might be interested in dicks after all, because—”

Growl.

“I give amazing head, and—”

Fuck shit fuck.

“I’m really gay for you, Marco, so—” 

_No._

Jean rubs a hand over his face and pinches his nose, closing his eyes in frustration. The bathroom is slowly cooling down, the steam evaporating from the very long shower he just took, during which time Jean had argued with himself about what to do.

Well, what about just being honest?

“Marco,” Jean says to the mirror, staring into his own eyes intently, “I’m in love with you.”

Well, that was a little scary, but it’s the best option he’s come up with so far.

Jean sighs in exasperation and walks out into his bedroom to pull on clothes for work, not even thinking about what he’s wearing.

Much to chagrin, he ends up with a faded Nirvana shirt he hasn’t washed in a few weeks for specific reasons, and takes it off immediately because he doesn’t want to lose Marco’s smell.

It occurs to him right then, standing shirtless in his own bedroom, hoping desperately that the t-shirt still smells like Marco, that he’s pretty pathetic. 

Jean’s never gone after anything beyond what keeps him comfortable. He’s had to work hard in some cases to get to the level he wants—working long hours the first year he started at the record store, doing the jobs no one else wanted—but it paid off, because barring the apocalypse, he has a job for the rest of his life. Levi will never get rid of him because he proved his own worth.

But to put his neck out willfully, where he could potentially have a life-ruining moment, is new. He’s never been ambitious, but now, things have changed, and he knows he can’t go back to the way he was before. Not after Marco.

There’s a definite pre- and post-Marco existence for Jean of which he’s slowly becoming more and more aware.

Jean grumbles as he pulls on a different shirt, thinking too hard again. Unfortunately, Bertl and Reiner aren’t here to fuck him into the mattress to help get his mind off things.

The fact of the matter is that he knows it won’t ruin their friendship if he tells Marco; there’s no way Marco would ever stop talking to him over something like that.

Jean is just afraid of being so crushed he’ll never recover. Marco is a once in a lifetime experience, and as cheesy as it sounds, Jean really believes it. 

Conveniently, the phone rings just then, wrenching Jean out of his thoughts. 

There, things to do: leave for work and answer the phone. Things to focus on to get Marco off his mind for the time being.

He grabs his combat boots and strides out into the living room, sitting down on the couch to pull them on as he grabs the receiver. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” comes Reiner’s low voice over the line.

“Just thinking about you and Bertl,” Jean says with a grin, further pushing thoughts of Marco away.

“Oh, yeah?” Reiner replies, a grin in his voice. 

“You busy tonight?” Jean asks. “Late? I gotta work until nine.”

“I was actually calling you to ask the same thing,” Reiner says.

“Thank _god_ ,” Jean sighs in relief. “Because I really need—”

He’s interrupted as he hears Bertl’s voice shout in the background, _“Tell him it’s not for sex!”_ Reiner snorts, and Jean immediately starts to pout.

“Are you pouting?”

“No.” Jean sucks his lip back in where he’s started to frown.

“Listen, we’ve got something to tell you. You want to come over for dinner?”

“Um,” Jean replies uncertainly, sitting up as he finishes lacing up his combat boots, “sure. Did someone die?” 

“Of course not!” Reiner replies emphatically.

“Are you moving?”

“No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Can’t you just tell me now?” Jean asks, sighing in exasperation. “I hate surprises.”

Reiner just chuckles; Jean knows he loves poking fun at him.

_”Stop torturing Jean, Reiner.”_

“Fine!” Reiner shouts, his voice somewhat more distant as he turns his head away from the receiver, no doubt to reply to Bertl who’s probably in the other room. “Bertl is no fun.”

 _“I heard that!”_

Jean pointedly ignores the twinge in his chest. “Can you guys stop bantering and being so fucking... _coupley?_ ” he growls.

“Still obsessing over whether to tell Marco?” Reiner retorts instantly.

Jean just leans forward to put his head between his knees and let out a long-suffering groan.

“We can talk about that, too, tonight, if you want advice,” Reiner adds, but he sounds at least a little sympathetic. “Dinner?”

“Okay,” Jean agrees in a flat voice. “Really no sex?”

“Okay, maybe _after_ dinner.”

 _“Tell him that’s a yes!”_ comes a distant shout.

“Oh my god,” Reiner grumbles, “he has supersonic hearing.”

Jean perks up, though, when he hears the word “sex” and “yes.”

“Okay, cool. See you at nine-thirty?”

“Yup,” Reiner replies; and if Jean’s not mistaken, he almost sounds... bouncy. “See you then!”

Jean replaces the phone in its cradle and then just stares at it. Whatever Bertl and Reiner have to tell him, it’s obviously big news.

Things are starting to change all around him, and he’s slowly beginning to realize how absolutely nothing has changed for him since he graduated from high school four years before.

= = =

If there’s one thing no one would expect about Bertolt Hoover, it’s that he can cook like a professional chef. He jokes, sometimes, that the only thing that can keep Reiner in line when he’s excitable—like a giant, affectionate puppy—is the food coma that inevitably sets in after Bertl goes all out to make dinner.

He’s apparently gone all out tonight, too. He loves hot, spicy food, and it’s lucky that Jean and Reiner do also. 

As Jean knocks on the door, he hears Reiner’s heavy footsteps, and a medley of delicious smells greet him as the door opens.

“Hey!” Reiner says excitedly, taking Jean’s jacket. “Come in.”

Jean is very familiar with Bertl and Reiner’s apartment. It’s very small, since neither one of them make much money, but it’s immaculately clean and surprisingly well decorated. The living room can barely hold a couch, chair and bookshelf, the kitchen is more like a closet, and their bedroom is only a little bigger than the living room.

Nevertheless, they’ve managed to cram their entire lives in here, and for the first time, Jean stops and really looks around at details he’s never noticed before.

There are lots of photographs on the bookshelf—even one or two of them as teenagers, although Reiner looks miserable even as he smiles, with Bertolt’s arm around him protectively—and then more recent ones. Jean realizes that he’s even in one of them from last year’s truly debaucherous New Year’s Eve party.

Jean smiles a little as he studies the photograph—they’re all covered in glitter, and a drunk Bertolt is leaning over Reiner’s shoulder with a rare big, shit-eating grin, his arms wrapped soundly around Reiner the same way as the other photo. 

“Man, that was a crazy night,” Reiner chuckles when he sees Jean looking at the photo.

Jean laughs too in agreement, but it suddenly feels bittersweet.

For the first time, he realizes that he’s not just standing in Reiner and Bertl’s apartment; he’s standing in their home. A real home they made together.

“Okay, so I used some really intense spices. Hope you’re ready to have steam pouring out of you!” Bertl announces as he walks into the living from the kitchen.

He’s wearing a novelty apron with garish writing across it that says: _I’m a Colossal Pain in the Ass (says my boyfriend)._

“Are you serious with that apron right now?” Jean laughs, staring at Bertl.

Bertl laughs, too, as Reiner walks over and envelopes him in a hug from behind. They’re being a little more affectionate than usual, and Jean wonders what exactly they’re going to tell him.

Bertl immediately reaches up to rest his hand against Reiner’s and shrugs. “It was a gift.”

Jean rolls his eyes, but grins.

Finally, they settle down with their food and Jean practically inhales it. Both he and Reiner have been trying to convince Bertl for years to go to culinary school, but he always has an excuse of why not. If there’s someone even less ambitious than Jean, it’s Bertl. He’s the least aggressive person Jean has ever met.

"So, we have something to tell you," Reiner says, smiling uncontrollably as he puts down his fork.

“I got that,” Jean says with a raised eyebrow, placing his plate in the sink where he’s been standing and eating. (Their kitchen table is so small, it only fits two.) He’s already preparing to do the dishes.

He’s even more mystified when he sees that Bertl looks openly excited, and then starts to grin.

"We're getting married," Reiner blurts out. 

Jean's eyes widen, and he blinks. It's not exactly unexpected, but it's a little surreal.

Of course, however, the next thing Reiner adds is, "Sorry, Jean. You're not invited on our wedding night."

"The engagement party, on the other hand..." Bertl grins.

“Whoa,” Jean exclaims in shock, holding up his hands, “wait... are you serious?”

“Uh, yeah...” Reiner replies simply, his excitement fading.

“I mean... wow, okay,” Jean finally replies, his head spinning. “Congratulations?”

“Wow, Jean, thanks for your support,” Bertl says dryly, and if Jean’s not mistaken, he actually sounds a little hurt.

“No!” Jean amends, realizing he’s doing The Thing He Does that only Marco knows how to deal with. He backtracks, and uses his newfound skill—explaining what the fuck he actually means—to correct himself. “That’s great! I’m just... surprised.”

They both stare at him for a moment, blinking in surprise.

“Did you actually just prevent yourself from digging a hole with your own mouth?” Reiner asks in wonder, more fascinated than offended now that Jean has managed to shut himself up after stumbling over his words.

“Um...” Jean says, starting to blush. “Blame it on Marco.”

Reiner raises an eyebrow and looks at Bertl, who raises an eyebrow in return.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jean continues, wanting to get off the topic of Marco, “I’m really happy for you guys. Seriously, that’s awesome.”

To Jean’s relief, Marco as a topic is immediately dropped, and they’re both grinning now.

“Nothing’s going to change,” Reiner assures Jean. “We still want to fuck you.”

“Smooth, Reiner,” Bertl says wryly, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t need to be smooth with me,” Jean laughs, relief coursing through him. He can definitely handle Reiner and Bertl being married, but having sex with them is one of the only things that provides him with the stress relief he needs. That, and it’s fun. “I’m cool.”

“Great!” Reiner exclaims, jumping up from his chair. To Jean’s surprise, he finds Reiner’s strong arms wrapped around him in a legitimately affectionate hug. “Your support really means a lot to us.”

“Yeah,” Bertl says softly, looking up at Jean hesitantly. If there’s ever been someone worse at expressing feelings than Jean, it’s Bertl. “Thanks, Jean.”

Jean is happy for them—he really is—but there’s something about the entire thing that makes him sad.

“So, uh...” Jean says awkwardly, biting his lip, “you really still want to...”

“Have filthy threesomes?” Reiner supplies helpfully. “Of course.”

“Nothing is going to change, Jean,” Bertl adds. “We just want to get married, like couples do.”

Jean doesn’t bother asking how exactly that’s going to work, given the fact that gay marriage legally doesn’t exist, even thought it happens occasionally on television. Then again, Bertl and Reiner have never let anything stop them before. Even if it’s not a marriage in the eyes of the law, it’s a marriage in the eyes of people who matter—themselves and their friends. 

“We’re having a big engagement party,” Reiner continues excitedly as Jean takes their plates, turning on the water to start doing the dishes from dinner. “It’s for close friends and any other people we know that aren’t assholes.”

Jean laughs at that, since he thinks most people are assholes. Reiner is probably the one bringing the friends, because Bertl isn’t the best at making them.

“Sounds good,” Jean agrees, nodding. “When is it?”

“This Friday,” Bertl replies, “at that bar we like that’s only a few blocks from here.”

The bar is pretty far away from Jean’s apartment, and he knows they’re expecting him to come back with them. Suddenly, though, he doesn’t feel like it; at least not this Friday.

“Um,” he says awkwardly, turning his head slightly to look at them. They’ve clasped hands across the table, looking like two love-sick teenagers. “Do you mind if I bring Marco?”

That earns two surprised looks, and Jean shrugs, starting to blush as he looks back at the sink. “I mean, it’s okay if not... I just think he’d like to go, since he likes you guys, and he doesn’t get out a lot. We’re also supposed to hang out that night, and I don’t want to just stand him up when—”

“Jean,” Reiner interrupts, his voice surprisingly soft, “of course you can bring Marco. You don’t need to explain.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to get all fucking sappy on me,” Jeans grunts, frowning, “now that you’re like, in marital bliss or some shit.”

That earns two booming laughs Jean’s not expecting, and he turns again.

“Oh, don’t get us wrong,” Bertl replies.

“We both think you’re an idiot for not telling Marco at this point,” Reiner continues. “I just know it can be tough to dealing with telling someone how you feel.”

To Jean’s surprise, Bertl’s face softens and he squeezes Reiner’s hand.

Jean snorts dismissively, but he gives a little grudging nod. “Thanks.” 

“Oh, look, Jean is being warm and fuzzy,” Bertl remarks, laughing.

“I hate you guys.”

“We know, Jean,” Reiner adds, his voice amused. “Oh, by the way... you and Marco can stay here if you want. I know that the bar is a trek from your place.”

Jean puts the last plate in the dish rack to dry, and turns around in surprise. “You don’t want to... afterwards?”

“Well, sure,” Reiner says with a shrug, “but if you want to bring Marco, don’t feel like you can’t just stay over.”

Bertl nods in agreement. “We’re your friends, Jean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jean says, looking down at his shoes self-consciously.

“We can go on a double date,” Reiner deadpans, and Jean just snorts.

“I wish.”

Two pairs of eyes widen at the same time, and Bertl clears his throat. “Are you _ever_ going to tell him?” he asks after a tense moment.

“I was thinking about it,” Jean says. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Well,” Reiner replies steadfastly, “even if it blows up in your face, you always have us.”

“Yeah,” Bertl agrees, “both as friends, and up your—”

“ _Wow_ ,” Jean interjects, but he’s laughing. “That’s really heartrending, Bertl.”

“Just how you like it,” Reiner declares with a grin, standing up. “So, bring Marco, and you guys can stay on the pullout couch. It’s bouncy, though, so try not to make too much noise when you—”

“Shut up, Reiner.”

Jean, for once, ends up going home after sitting around and chatting with them for a while.

He calls Marco the next day to tell him the news, and as expected, Marco is immediately excited and overjoyed; then touched that they said it was okay for him to go to the engagement party. 

Jean wants to curl into a ball and die when Marco asks very sincerely if they should give Reiner and Bertolt a joint engagement present.

= = =

Marco is shopping for china, and Jean hates his life.

They’re both on their lunch break, and Marco had insisted they go to one of the mall department stores to get Reiner and Bertolt a proper engagement gift.

“I mean,” he says, turning to look at Jean and holding a brightly colored plate with wide eyes, “I don’t want to get them something they don’t want.”

Jean eyes the plate. “Honestly,” he says, laughing a little, “they’d probably love it. They’re painfully domestic. And Bertl likes to cook.” 

Marco laughs a little with a shrug and puts the plate down. “Well, I guess I’d just think of what I’d want then, since I like to cook, too.” He smiles, and Jean feels faint.

“I don’t know,” Jean says idly, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at a gaudy crystal punch bowl. “You have better taste than me. I’d probably just make them a mix CD of good sex songs.”

Marco blushes right up to the top of his forehead, and Jean laughs. 

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, but laughing now, too, “I’ll leave that to you, then.”

He sighs, crossing his arms and looking defeated. “I have no idea what to get. What would you want for your wedding?” he asks suddenly, looking at Jean.

“Um...” Jean says uncomfortably, fighting down the surge of feelings. This has to end soon. “I guess... a mix CD of good sex songs?”

Marco laughs more loudly this time, and he grins. “Well,” he says, “when you get married, I’ll remember that.”

Jean can’t help but think that it would be the best gift in the universe if he was listening to it with Marco.

“Just get them the plates,” he finally says decisively. “Bertl likes making spicy food... so, I don’t know... get them the bright ones you were looking at.”

“Oh!” Marco exclaims in delight. “The Fiesta set?”

“Wow, Marco.”

“What?” he asks, smiling sheepishly. “It’s really nice they’re getting married. It sounds stupid, but I like doing this kind of stuff.”

_I like doing it with you._

Jean gives a forced laugh and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ll split it with you. We can do a... um... joint gift.”

Marco is paying for china; Jean continues to hate his life.

= = =

The bar that Reiner and Bertl chose for their engagement party is a low key place that bills itself as a gay bar, although the only visible indicators of this are a few small rainbow flags tacked up here and there. The fact of the matter is, though, that the place has been an LGBT haven for decades.

When Jean walks in with Marco—who has insisted on wearing a pair of pressed khakis and a nice button-down shirt—Reiner immediately attacks them. 

“Marco!” Reiner exclaims, wrapping Marco in a tight hug. “Thanks for coming!”

The breath is knocked out of Marco as any greeting he was about to say dies with a squeak, but then laughs as he pats Reiner on the back after being let go.

“Thanks for inviting me,” he replies shyly. “Um, I got you something, but it’s in Jean’s car.”

“They’re plates,” Jean says. “Lots of different colored plates.”

“They’re _Fiesta_ ware,” Marco adds, looking a little more excited.

“Thanks, Marco!” Reiner exclaims, setting his beer down on a table. “Bertl! Marco got us plates.”

Bertl walks over now, putting his arm around Reiner who’s still beaming, and he smiles. “That’s awesome. Thanks, Marco!”

“Um, they’re Fiesta ware.”

Bertl’s face lights up, and Reiner starts laughing. “I love those! They’re really fun to use for dinner.”

“You know what that is?” Jean deadpans, staring at Bertl.

“What?” Bertl retorts, raising an eyebrow at Jean. “I like cooking and kitchen stuff. At least _I_ don’t spend hours rearranging my anal retentive music library.”

Reiner starts to laugh as Jean glares, and then even Marco is laughing.

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Jean reprimands, nudging him in the ribs.

“Sorry, Jean,” Marco says, still smiling, “but it’s true.” Marco turns his attention back to Bertl—who Jean notices is studying their interaction intently—and looks around the bar.

“This place is cool,” Marco says. “What made you choose it?”

“This is where we had our first date,” Bertl replies. Jean looks at him in surprise; it’s rare Bertl is so forthcoming about his and Reiner’s history. “And it’s really close to our place.”

“In fact,” Reiner enthuses, dangerously giddy even though he’s not drunk yet, “we picked our apartment, because we saw the building when we passed afterwards.”

“Oh,” Marco says, seemingly riveted by their story, “so, I guess you guys moved in together really soon after?” He bites his lip, his face going crimson suddenly; Jean figures he probably just remembered the entire explanation of how they had a rough past. “I’m sorry!” he says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, that’s okay,” Bertl says with a shrug. “It’s actually kind of a funny story.”

“Yeah, the story being that we moved in together a week later.” With that declarative statement, he turns and gives Bertl one of the longest, sloppiest kisses Jean has ever witnessed, and the conversation ends as he starts groping Bertl.

“They’re going to be like this all night,” Jean murmurs to Marco under his breath, and Marco just laughs with a shrug.

“That’s okay,” he replies. “It’s their party.”

Jean spends the duration of the evening leaning against the heavy wooden the bar with Marco, just talking about silly things and watching all the different people who come through the door. They’re mostly Reiner’s friends, but as is usually the case, Reiner enthusiastically introduces everyone to Bertl, who is shy and retiring at first, but then warms up after a few drinks.

Reiner is in his element, and he’s grinning like a maniac; Jean notices, though, that he never leaves Bertl’s side.

Much to Jean’s amusement, Marco is drinking whiskey, although he’s spent two hours to finish his first glass.

When Marco realizes he’s being studied, he just grins. “I have a question,” he says suddenly, and Jean’s eyebrows raise as he tries desperately to control his expression.

“Uh huh?” he grunts, looking nonchalantly over at the substantial crowd of party-goers.

Marco hops up onto one of the stools, resting his feet on the little wooden bars, and looks over at Jean.

“What would make you come on a first date here?”

“Uh...” Jean replies, taken aback.

“I don’t mean that critically,” Marco explains quickly. “I mean... why this place?”

“Oh,” Jean says with a shrug. “Well, I can answer that. If you’re on a first date—and don’t forget, Reiner and Bertl probably had their first real date... I don’t know,” he counts on his fingers and makes a contemplative face, “like, four years ago or something? It’s not easy to go on a gay date today, and it was even harder four years ago, even though it doesn’t seem that long.”

He shrugs, feeling a little depressed suddenly.

“But it’s easier to come to a place like this,” he explains, gesturing to the bar around them, “because no one is going to look at you funny.”

“Oh,” Marco says in a small voice, and he actually sounds sad.

“Sucks,” Jean says with a shrug. “But they didn’t let that stop them, right?”

“Yeah,” Marco agrees, sounding a little more heartened, “that’s true.”

He sets his empty glass down on the bar, and Jean smiles at him a little. “You want another one?”

Marco smiles a little and looks down at his lap. “Thanks.”

Jean motions for the bartender, and she comes over to get Marco a fresh drink. “You guys are really cute together,” she remarks, and Jean immediately flushes in embarrassment. “Shouldn’t you both be over there, though, if it’s your party?”

“Oh, we’re not...” Jean's about to finish the sentence with "together," when Marco interjects.

“We’re not engaged." 

Jean looks over at him in surprise, and Marco just blinks at him; there’s something about his expression that makes Jean immediately feel warm, and the urge to kiss him is so strong, Jean almost considers doing it. At the last minute, though, he backs down and reprimands himself.

They sit in comfortable silence after that, until eventually Reiner ends up next to them again as the night wears on and the last people leave.

“Hey,” he says, grinning like an idiot at both of them; thankfully, Reiner is a happy drunk. Bertl is right next to him, and he looks tired from all the socializing.

“So,” Reiner starts, “lemme tell you a story about our first date...”

Bertl surveys the entire situation closely, but he allows Reiner to tell the story without interrupting. Jean realizes Bertl must really like Marco to let Reiner ramble about the past; granted, it’s not a bad story, but it’s still surprising.

“So, I was really nervous,” Reiner starts, slinging his arm around Marco’s shoulders, “and then Bertl shows up looking cute as fuck in this dorky v-neck sweater.”

Jean looks over at Bertl expectantly; all he does is mutter how Reiner should shut up, but allows it to continue. "I was wearing a tie, too,” he adds unexpectedly.

“Oh my god, I forgot about that!” Reiner bursts out laughing. “We were so obviously underage, but the bartender let us stay. Probably felt sorry for us. And then we sat here like assholes and drank Diet Coke."

“For about two hours,” Bertl supplements, getting comfortable on one of the stools as he sits to join in on the story.

“Weren’t you guys friends before that?” Marco asks curiously.

Jean cringes, but neither one of them even blink. “Oh, yeah, totally,” Reiner nods.

“Like, for forever,” Bertl agrees.

Apparently, Saint Marco can do no wrong.

“Why were you so nervous, then?” Marco continues, looking back and forth between them.

“Well,” Bertl says after a moment of tense silence, looking over at Reiner hesitantly, “it was my first date. Ever.”

Reiner’s face immediately softens, and he abandons his position next to Marco to stand near Bertl and wrap an arm around him. 

“And then, you got yourself a cranky, big husband.”

Bertl rolls his eyes and laughs, but rests his head on Reiner’s shoulder. “ _Anyway_ ,” he says, poking Reiner, “why don’t you tell the story about how when we moved in, that guy almost shot us?”

Marco’s eyes are truly wide now, and Bertl and Reiner have just gained a captive audience for their romantic saga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continue on to the next chapter, which is actually Part 2 of this one! XD


	8. Jean is— never mind because Marco fucking Bodt is kissing him (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Reiner tells stories, Marco shops for housewares, and Jean comes clean.
> 
> (Double upload!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being longer than I first thought, but it's truly one chapter, so I split into two parts and uploaded it at the same time. Bonus upload! XD (i.e. Chapter 7 & 8 are actually one chapter)
> 
> Stay tuned for the epilogue... because nothing ever stays the same.

Eventually, Reiner is back with his arm around Marco, laughing as he tells the story that stopped being linear a long time ago, and he’s getting very touchy-feely. Jean knows this move, and then to his abject horror, Reiner literally turns toward Marco to hang on him as the story ends.

“So,” he says in a gravelly voice—a tone Jean knows very well from behind closed doors—as he addresses Marco, “you guys are coming back to our place, right?”

Marco just looks confused, and says in a timid voice, “Um, yeah, that was plan... if that’s still okay.”

“Oh, it’s more than okay...” Reiner grins. Jean cringes, but then Bertl flicks Reiner in the shoulder. Reiner hisses and makes an uncomfortable noise, but before he can continue, Bertl does it again.

Finally, Reiner turns to look over with a mystified expression, attention momentarily diverted. At first, he looks startled, but then focuses in on Bertl who’s glaring at him with a reprimanding look.

“Bertl,” he says in a silly tone with a big grin on his face, and then launches himself at Bertl who immediately drags him away.

Jean sighs silently in relief, and then turns to Marco to try and smooth over Reiner’s behavior, which probably just strikes wholesome Marco as strange, rather than provocative.

“Drunk,” is all he says, and Marco laughs.

“They’re entitled,” he replies with a shrug, then yawns widely. Jean laughs a little and offers up a sympathetic look. 

“Don’t worry. They’ll probably want to go soon, since everyone’s already left.”

Jean’s prediction is correct, once Reiner’s hands start sliding to places on Bertl’s body that go far beyond a PDA.

They leave the bar, and the air is pleasantly brisk, but no longer cold. Nevertheless, Marco's got his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket, and Jean doesn't even have his own jacket zipped up. Marco is uncharacteristically quiet as he walks next to Jean behind Reiner and Bertl, who are holding hands and practically skipping ahead.

“You okay?” Jean asks Marco, looking over at him curiously.

There’s something a little bittersweet about Marco’s expression that Jean can’t place.

“Yeah,” he replies with a shrug. “Just tired, I guess.”

Jean waits for him to say more, but there’s no further explanation.

They make their way slowly up the stairs, stopping a few times as Reiner and Bertl start making out unabashedly, until Jean pokes at them to keep walking. Marco blushes a little, but he laughs and takes it all in stride.

When they reach the apartment and Bertl swings open the door, Reiner trips and ends up pressed against Marco, face to face; he gives a doofy grin and cocks his head to the side.

“Hi,” he says, but then draws away, much to Jean’s relief.

Bertl rolls his eyes, but when it doesn’t look like Reiner’s going to do any more damage, he disappears into their bedroom to grab some blankets for the couch.

Reiner also vanishes into the kitchen, most likely to retrieve water, and when he comes back out, Bertl emerges at the same time, setting a pile of blankets down on the armchair.

However, when Reiner immediately grins stupidly, looking back and forth between Jean and Marco, and then over at Bertl, he receives a flat stare for his efforts.

“Jean,” Bertl says, trying to be tactful but shooting Reiner a pointed look, “you guys are sleeping _on the couch,_ right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jean says, hoping his face isn’t burning as brightly as he thinks it is.

“No fun,” Reiner says with an undignified pout, and then turns to pull his shirt off as he retreats to the bedroom.

Marco’s eyes are wide as he watches the shirt go flying onto the floor next to the couch, and then darts a glance at Reiner who’s also in the process of pulling off his pants until Bertl shuts the door.

“Sorry,” he says, cringing. “Um...”

Marco laughs nervously. “It’s your engagement party. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Marco,” Bertl replies, and then grins. “Oh, and thanks for the plates. Those are really cool.”

“Oh,” Marco says, looking down with a little smile, almost embarrassed, “they were from Jean, too.”

Bertl shoots Jean a look, his eyebrows raised, and Jean frowns at him. “Good _night_ ¸ Bertl,” he says definitively. Bertl just snorts before following Reiner into the bedroom and shutting the door.

Marco turns to look at Jean with wide eyes, and Jean waits for the inevitable question. It’s just too obvious at this point not to recognize.

“Was he, uh...” Marco says awkwardly, looking around self-consciously. “Were they going to...”

Jean is trying to keep his face neutral; he owes Bertl major for Reiner-horny-Braun damage control.

“Yeah?” Jean asks.

“Were they going to ask us to have a foursome?” Marco finally blurts out, but his voice is quiet. There are some noises coming from Reiner and Bertl’s bedroom, but nothing too pornographic yet. Mostly just laughter and banging around. “Um, if that’s even that right word... like, an 'orgy?'”

Jean doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry.

“I don’t think so,” he says innocently. “They’re just drunk and—”

“Ah, fuck, _Reiner, fuck_...” comes a very distinct shout from the bedroom.

“Bertolt Hoover-Braun—” _smack_ “—you’ve been very bad—” _smackSMACK_ “—and you need to be punished.”

If Marco’s face turned any more red, he’d be a tomato.

“Um,” Jean says awkwardly. “Do you want to go, because...”

“No, no,” Marco laughs nervously. “It’s... it’s fine.”

“We totally don’t have to stay here,” Jean says, giving a nervous little laugh. “My apartment is a little far, but...”

“How long do you think they’ll be?” Marco asks, still flushed.

“Knowing them? And how drunk Reiner is?” Jean snorts. “Half an hour. They act like they’re an old married couple after a night of drinking. Well, who are actually getting... married,” he finishes. Or as close as they can get, given the world’s unfairness.

A particularly loud moan from the other room startles Marco, and finally, Jean laughs a little.

“C’mon,” he says, “let’s go into the kitchen.”

Marco follows Jean into Reiner and Bertolt's tiny kitchen, and Jean opens the fridge to grab two bottles of water.

“You’re pretty good friends with them, huh?” Marco asks as he takes the water. Jean realizes how familiar his actions must seem.

"They're both good people," Jean nods. The noises coming from the bedroom haven't gotten quieter—if anything, they’ve gotten louder—but Marco is doing a good job of ignoring it. "Maybe now they'll move out of this shit hole." Jean grins conspiratorially. "Reiner is the type who's gonna want kids. Considering how much they love orgies and BDSM, they're both kind of old-fashioned."

Jean is too busy laughing at his friends' expense to immediately notice the look on Marco's face.

He said orgies. Oops.

"Maybe they _were_ going to ask us to..." Marco swallows hard, looking endearingly scandalized. "Uh, yeah."

At first, Jean is amused by Marco's bashfulness; but then, it fades when it suddenly occurs to him that he might be mistaking bashfulness for disgust.

Fuck it—he’s sick of hiding this. In fact, he’s sick of hiding everything.

"You’re right—they were," he says bluntly, taking a sip of water and not explaining further. He watches Marco carefully.

Marco is blushing fiercely, and it probably doesn't help that Reiner chooses that exact moment to bellow in a deep, booming voice, " _FUUCCCK, BERTL... Fuck, I'm coming..._ "

"Um..."

"Do you think that's gross?” Jean asks in a neutral voice. “I mean, the foursome thing?"

Jean looks at the floor as disappointment churns in his stomach. He really didn't believe Marco would be that judgmental.

"I'm not a _homophobe_ ," Marco exclaims, “and I’d never judge someone for something like that.” When Jean looks up in surprise, Marco is staring at him with a stricken expression, and he realizes he hurt Marco's feelings by even suggesting it. "I just... don't have any experience with orgies. I doubt I'd be any good at it."

Jean knows he must look dumbfounded, because then Marco looks embarrassed.

"Wait...” Jean finally says incredulously. “Are you saying you’d _want_ to try it?" 

Marco's eyes widen. "I don't know," he says, shrugging. "I might just... be kind of boring and only want one person." 

Jean is tired of having secrets. Marco knows him inside out, and Jean wants to come clean, because this is part of who he is, too.

"I fuck Bertl and Reiner all the time," he blurts out. "Um, they probably wanted to have a foursome because Reiner is drunk and stupid, and normally, I'd be in there with them. And in his drunken, stupid haze of horny, just randomly decided you'd be interested."

If Marco's eyes could get any wider, they’d probably fall out of his head. Then abruptly, though, he breaks eye contact.

"Oh," is all he says softly, wrapping his arms around himself. Jean watches in utter confusion as Marco takes two steps back and looks at the floor.

"I didn't mean to intrude," he says, sounding embarrassed. "Sorry. I can go if you want to, um..." He gestures vaguely toward the noise coming from the bedroom, and without further comment, walks out of the kitchen abruptly while shaking his head in mortification. Jean is left standing there, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

"Wait," he says, stumbling over a pair of Reiner's heavy work boots on the floor as he follows Marco into living room. "Marco!"

Marco already has his hand on the doorknob and he’s about to open it.

"It's fine," Marco says in a hushed, almost harsh voice, "no hard feelings. I'm sorry I got in the way."

"Wait!" Jean exclaims desperately, grabbing Marco's shoulder and turning him around. "Why are you leaving?"

Marco’s eyes flash in uncharacteristic anger, and Jean winces.

"I _hate_ being the third wheel," Marco snaps at him, pulling away sharply. "And I'm sorry I'm not into orgies. I guess you would’ve just left me behind if you knew that, especially since I'm not dating anyone, and you're dating _two_ people."

"What are you talking about?!" Jean cries desperately, not understanding anything Marco is saying. "I'm not dating anyone!"

Jean's throat constricts when he sees tears in Marco's eyes.

"You just said..." Marco shoots back, his voice rising.

"I'm not _dating_ them!" Jean exclaims, suddenly getting it. "I do that because it's fun and it works for me right now, but that's all!"

"Well, it's none of my business, anyway," Marco says in a hushed voice, turning away. "I'm sorry I'm not fun and exciting."

"Marco, it's _not_ serious, and no one expects you to join in some fuck fest," Jean insists in a frustrated voice. "If I wanted to spend my night fucking Bertl and Reiner, I wouldn't have asked you along!" He's rewarded when Marco pauses and turns his head slightly to pay attention, but somehow, it just makes Jean more hysterical. "And just for the fucking _record_ , Bodt, if I was dating someone, it would be you. And I'd be fine with never fucking anyone else for the rest of my life if that’s what you wanted!"

Jean glares at Marco, adrenaline pumping through his veins... until he realizes exactly what he just said and snaps his mouth shut in horror. 

Marco is staring at him, his mouth hanging open slightly, but his expression is unreadable.

They continue to stare at each other in stunned silence, until finally, Marco speaks.

"You want to date me?" he asks, his voice uninflected and quiet.

Jean hangs his head, tears burning in his eyes. "I’m sorry," he murmurs. "For being creepy-bi-orgy-guy who’s perving on you. We never have to talk about this again. I— _mph_ —"

Marco is kissing him.

Marco fucking Bodt is kissing him.

Jean lets out a breathless moan as one of Marco’s hands lands at the small of his back and pulls him closer, the other gently stroking the nape of his neck as they kiss.

When the kiss finally breaks, they’re both panting. "I'm not an orgy expert," Marco whispers, "but I'm also not a novice."

Jean groans, and he feels his heart jump into his throat at how gentle Marco's hand is as he slides it up press against Jean's shoulder blades now, holding him close.

Marco sighs softly as Jean presses a few slow, shy kisses along his jaw, then down along his throat and neck.

"That feels really nice," Marco exhales.

Jean rests his head against Marco's shoulder, and Marco just holds him.

"I thought you were straight," Jean finally says softly.

"So did I," Marco replies with a slight shrug, not displacing Jean, "except for that giant crush I had on you at Bible camp that never really went away."

Jean pulls back to stare at Marco, only to find he's perfectly serious.

"Sorry to be creepy-straight-preppy-guy who’s perving on you," he adds softly. “Um, can I kiss you again?”

“Yeah,” Jean murmurs, closing his eyes.

“Is that... boring?” Marco asks in a small voice. The revelation of what Jean gets up to with Reiner and Bertl is still obviously fresh in his mind, and Jean can understand how it might be intimidating.

"No," Jean reassures him. "I'll take you kissing me over a threesome...erm, foursome... any day."

Marco smiles a little as he leans forward to kiss him again, and Jean’s heart leaps into his throat. The kissing turns into more touching, and before Jean realizes, Marco is touching him everywhere—stroking fingers over Jean’s neck and up to his jaw and cheekbones, tracing his features. It’s so intimate, that it’d be suffocating with anyone else; but because it’s Marco, it feels like a breath of fresh air.

It’s the first time Jean’s ever let someone touch him this way—intimate and not driven by lust—and he catches Marco’s hand in his.

“You know,” he says softly, kissing the back of Marco’s hand, “Bertl and Reiner wanted me to tell you.”

“Really?” Marco asks quietly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Now that I think about it... this might have been some sort of weird, half-assed plan of theirs.”

Marco laughs a little, and then they stiffen in surprise as a voice—who Jean recognizes as Reiner—yells through the door, “No shit!”

Marco groans, a blush spreading over his face as he covers his face with his hands, and Jean laughs, pulling him close.

“So, you just... you all have sex?”

“Yup,” Jean says with a shrug. “I like sex, but that’s all it is. It’s like...” he tilts his head to the side, thinking. “It’s like how you have a huge record collection, and you have all these import singles that have different versions of the same song. And they’re all _totally_ awesome, and you listen to them more than once. But then there’s that one record...” he presses a kiss against Marco’s mouth, “that you could just listen to forever, until the needle dulls down so far it stops playing.”

“Um,” Marco says, a hint of amusement in his voice, “that was a really elaborate analogy.”

“Jerk,” Jean murmurs, belying his response as he rubs his nose against Marco’s cheek. “You’re the record.”

Marco smiles at him suddenly, and then Jean makes a happy sound as Marco’s hands creep up under his shirt.

“Are you calling Bertl and Reiner singles?”

“I don’t know. The analogy made sense in my goddamn head, okay?”

“It was a nice analogy,” Marco says softly, his voice more serious.

“Is that why you got upset before?” Jean asks after a moment. “Because... you thought I was dating them?”

“Yeah,” Marco admits, his face reddening slightly.

“Is that because...” Jean swallows hard, “you want to date me?”

“Yeah,” Marco whispers. “I think so.”

“What are all your preppy ass friends gonna say?” Jean says, looking down. “Wait, what are your _parents_ going to say?”

“To put it into your words, Jean,” Marco says softly, “I don’t give a fuck.” 

Jean laughs a little at that, and then rests his head against Marco’s shoulder; he can’t remember the last time he leaned on someone like this, or if he ever has.

“Besides,” Marco adds, rubbing his cheek against Jean’s hair, “you’d be surprised to know that a lot of my private school friends are actually all right. I don’t know why, but I feel like Annie would actually get along with Bertl and Reiner.”

Jean snorts. “I thought she was a cutthroat bitch?”

“No,” Marco says easily, tightening his arms around Jean and laughing a little, “she’s cutthroat, but she’s fair. She, uh...” he hesitates, but then keeps talking, “she knows about my crush on you.”

“You like me enough to even _say_ you have a crush on me?” Jean asks quietly, emotion bubbling up in his chest.

Marco pulls back to look at him with a serious expression. “I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he murmurs, “since I was eleven years old. And when I saw you again, in the record store that first night, it was like nothing had changed.”

“And I didn’t recognize you at first,” Jean says, cringing. “I’m an asshole.”

“It’s okay. You are kind of an asshole, but I don’t mind.”

Jean laughs a little and shakes his head, but then his face darkens.

“Well, then...” he whispers, biting his lip, “why did you say you thought me and Mikasa would make a good couple? Why... why to all that stuff?”

Marco takes a deep breath, and squeezes Jean’s arms gently. It looks like he’s dragging the words out of himself by sheer brute force. “I never thought you’d be interested in someone like me.”

“What?!” Jean exclaims, staring openly at Marco. “Why would you think that?”

Marco shrugs a little, not meeting Jean’s eyes. “You’re so cool, and you’ve got it all together. And I...” he takes a deep, shuddery breath, “I’m a college drop-out who lives on a couch and likes Britney Spears.”

Jean envelopes Marco in a hug so tight, the breath is practically squeezed out of him.

“I don’t care what you do,” he whispers, pressing his face against the side of Marco’s face, “and I don’t care what kind of music you like, or where you live, or whether you have a fucking law degree. I just care about you.”

“Okay,” Marco whispers, and to Jean’s surprise, he’s choked up. His arms tighten around Jean, and he says very softly, “You’re one of the most important things in my life.”

Jean takes a shuddery breath in, the emotions getting the better of him, and then sighs; he feels Marco’s hands gently smooth over his back in a comforting motion.

“So,” Marco says, “does this mean I’m bi?”

Jean laughs and doesn’t let go, holding him tightly. “I don’t know. It can mean whatever you want. It doesn’t have to mean anything. It means we like each other. Fuck everyone else.”

“Okay,” Marco says, and rests his head against Jean’s shoulder now.

They stand like that for a few minutes, unmoving, until finally, Marco yawns again and Jean smiles a little.

“You, um...” he says softly after a moment, “do you want to go to bed?”

Marco’s eyes widen, and then Jean leans up to kiss him again, just because he can.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do that in the past year,” he breathes. And then kisses Marco again, just for the good measure. “And by the way, your freckles are really fucking cute.”

Marco is blushing again, and biting his lip now. “Um, you know that one shirt for that band... Smith? Mr. Smiths?”

“Oh my _god_ , Marco. You mean The fucking Smiths?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it,” Jean declares, pulling away from Marco to point at him. “We’re having an emergency intervention tomorrow and—”

“I had a lot of dreams about you wearing that shirt. Um,” Marco says, not meeting Jean’s eyes as the blush intensifies, “you know. Special ones.”

Jean snaps his mouth shut, and then finally just says, dumbfounded, “I’ll wear it more often.”

Marco finally raises his eyes slightly to look at Jean, and his face is absolutely _burning_ now; they just stare at each other, until Jean opens his mouth and hopes for his voice to work. 

“Okay,” he says hoarsely, forcing himself to speak after a moment of staring at Marco’s face as if he's lost the ability, “do you want to pull out the couch?”

Marco swallows visibly and nods, and Jean pulls away abruptly to grab the blankets stacked up on the chair just as Marco dutifully pulls out the couch.

They make it up together, and by the time Jean is setting the comforter on top, Marco is standing off to the side staring intently at the two pillows at the head of it.

Jean continues to position the comforter—he re-centers it three times, until Marco finally murmurs, “I can sleep on the floor if you want.” He worries his lip nervously as he stammers, the color rising in his cheeks, “If, um... you’re not... if that isn’t... I mean, if you think...”

Jean turns with wide eyes and shakes his head. He can feel his nervousness singing through his ears, but it’s also excitement—adrenaline.

“ _No_ ,” he blurts out emphatically, and Marco’s eyebrows raise. If Jean’s not mistaken, though, something sparks in his eyes. “Let’s just... let’s just go to bed. And sleep.”

“Let’s go to sleep,” Marco echoes, his nodding vigorously. “Right. Exactly.”

“It’ll be like summer camp,” Jean offers, forcing a smile onto his face. That earns an actual smile from Marco, and Jean’s stomach flips.

No doubt remains—he is _in love_ with his straight friend, who apparently, is not actually that straight.

And, although Reiner’s assertion that he’s at least 75% fag is probably correct, he’s 100% everything for Marco.

“Bed,” he repeats, feeling like a puppeteer pulling at his own strings, “yeah.”

Marco takes the plunge first and kicks off his loafers to lie down on the top of the pullout bed. Jean turns out the light, and gingerly crawls up next to him, carefully giving Marco space.

They just lie there stiffly for a few minutes, until Marco finally whispers, his voice wracked with nervousness, “Do you want to kiss me again?”

Jean rolls over so fast to attack Marco’s mouth that the couch nearly folds in two, and Marco laughs a little as their lips meet; the sound of his voice makes Jean moan softly. It comes out as a more emotional sound than he intended, but then he feels Marco’s hand come up to rest lightly against the back of his neck as they kiss, and he thinks it was probably a good idea. 

When Jean eases the hem of Marco's shirt up to reach skin, though, he gasps.

"Too much?" Jean whispers in concern, drawing back.

Marco catches his breath, and says, "No, not at all. I want more..."

"You're not a virgin, right?" Jean keeps the judgment out of his voice, though, since everyone is different, but Marco laughs.

"No... I’ve just never...” he hesitates, and Jean takes his hand, “with a guy."

"That's okay," Jean says quietly with a gentle smile. "Just tell me what feels good, or if you want to stop."

“Okay,” Marco replies breathlessly.

They’re lying on their sides facing each other, and Jean presses closer to slide a hand under Marco’s shirt, smoothing up his spine and stopping to rest against his shoulder blades.

He lets out a quiet noise as Marco kisses him again, pressing their lips together, and Jean feels a hand settle at the small of his own back.

Their hips rock together slowly, and the strength of how turned on he is makes Jean feels lightheaded. Marco’s hand tightens where it’s resting.

He doesn’t even care that his voice rises an octave as he bites out Marco’s name when Marco’s hand slides lower to grasp Jean’s ass and pull his hips forward. Jean whimpers and presses a desperate kiss to Marco’s lips.

“Make that noise again,” Marco whispers against Jean’s mouth.

“ _Marco_ ,” Jean moans quietly, his voice labored.

The moment is ruined, though, as Jean makes a pained sound since his chain wallet is digging into his hip. Marco tenses at first, but then relaxes when he hears Jean laugh a little.

“Fucking chain wallet,” he exhales, trying to regain coherent thought as he draws away. “Hold on.”

“Um,” Marco starts awkwardly as Jean moves to sit up and divest himself of his wallet chain, “you can just take them off if you want.”

Jean’s head swings around, and he knows Marco must be able to see his surprised expression, even in what little light is filtering in from the windows.

“I mean, if you want,” he repeats, biting his lip.

“Yes,” Jean blurts out. He doesn’t need another invitation to get pants-less with Marco, and he stands up and shimmies out of his jeans easily.

Marco is staring at him, and Jean is very glad he at least wore a pair of boxers he thinks look good on him—he’d gotten compliments from Reiner one day, though he’s not going to tell _Marco_ that—and he’s pleased to see Marco’s gaze travel quickly down his body and back to meet his eyes.

Jean smiles a little and tilts his head, and he can’t keep the affectionate look off his face. Marco immediately smiles a little, too, and reaches for Jean.

He gets back on the pullout couch and presses up against Marco again, tugging at his shirt.

“Take this off?”

“Yeah,” Marco whispers as he starts to pull the shirt over his head, but his voice is eager. Once he shrugs it off, he tugs at Jean’s t-shirt. 

“Take that off?” he echoes, a smile in his voice. 

Eventually, the only thing left is Marco’s pants and Jean’s boxers, and now that the plunge has been taken, they press up against each other with less hesitation.

Jean kisses Marco’s neck, murmuring how warm and smooth his skin is, and he hears Marco make an embarrassed noise at the praise. He keeps going, pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses down to Marco’s shoulders, until pushing him onto his back.

Marco goes willingly, and his hand tangles in Jean’s hair as Jean presses his tongue against one of Marco’s nipples.

Marco’s breath catches, and encouraged, Jean uses his thumb to tease the other one.

“Wow,” Marco stammers suddenly, “I never, um... thought about that on... me.”

Jean pulls away to laugh a little, and rubs his cheek affectionately against Marco’s shoulder.

“Do you like it?”

“Y-yeah,” Marco says softly.

“Good,” Jean replies, and then continues with what he was doing. He knows Marco likes it because the hand in his hair tightens when he uses his teeth, and Marco’s back arches as he lets out a sharp little moan.

There is nothing more erotic than hearing Marco undone, making wanton little sounds under the movements of Jean’s mouth. 

Jean’s encouraged when Marco’s legs edge apart, and Jean slides his free hand down to reach slowly between them.

“Is that okay?” he murmurs, looking up from where he’s still licking and biting at Marco’s nipples.

“ _Ah_ ,” is the only response he gets from Marco, and then it’s clear what he wants when he spreads his legs completely apart and bends his knees up, letting Jean massage at his cock.

"Fuck, yes," Jean whispers into Marco's ear as he moves his hand. He abandons Marco’s chest and stretches out next to him; Marco whimpers, turning slightly to cling to Jean and bite his shoulder.

Marco is so intoxicating like this—whimpering, moaning, a total mess—that Jean can’t even keep track of what’s happening. All he knows is that he wants Marco naked and under him, wants as much skin as he can get, as much of Marco as he can get.

He fumbles to unzip Marco’s khakis one-handed, and Marco makes a sound of encouragement as Jean reaches inside; they both gasp at the same time. Jean groans when he feels the precome at the tip, and when he rubs his thumb there, Marco lets out a downright pornographic moan.

“Shit,” Marco hisses, surprising Jean, “fuck... Jean...”

“God, you’re so hot when you curse,” Jean whispers hotly, starting to stroke slowly. “Do you like that?”

“Yeah,” Marco exhales in a desperate voice, arching his back sharply as he starts to plead, “Jean, _please oh god please..._ ” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jean bites out breathlessly, moving his hand faster and pressing his forehead against Marco’s shoulder.

He can tell Marco is about to come, but he doesn’t want him to yet; he pulls his hand away abruptly, and Marco lets out a sharp sound of protest.

“What’s wrong?” he gasps, turning his head to stare at Jean. “Why’d you stop?”

Jean takes a deep breath to gather his composure—and the ability to speak—and presses a kiss to Marco’s shoulder.

"I want to go down on you," he explains softly. "Is that okay?"

Marco’s face softens, and he nods, calmer than before. "Yeah.” 

Jean shuffles down to the end of the bed to get between Marco’s legs, bending forward to kiss at his stomach as he pulls Marco’s pants and underwear off completely. 

He presses a few more kisses against Marco’s stomach and hips, and then pushes his thighs apart slowly. Then he realizes that Marco is pushing his legs together at the same time, although it seems almost unconscious.

"You want to stop?" Jean asks, looking up at Marco with concern.

"No," Marco replies in a sheepish voice, "it's just... embarrassing, I guess, that you can see everything." He blinks owlishly at Jean with big, dark eyes, and Jean immediately reaches up to squeeze his hand.

"You look perfect," Jean replies firmly, meeting Marco’s nervous gaze. "I _want_ to see everything." He kisses Marco’s inner thigh softly, and he can feel Marco relax. 

“Okay,” Marco finally replies softly, lying back and spreading his legs apart again. Jean leans forward to hook Marco’s legs over his shoulders, kissing the sensitive skin on his inner thighs, before leaning forward to kiss the tip of his cock, swiping his tongue across it to lick at the precome. Marco bucks and Jean feels a hand come to twist in his hair.

“Jean,” he gasps, panting.

Jean holds his hips in place as he takes Marco into his mouth, and the sounds that Marco starts to make—little whimpers and moans that are simultaneously emotional and wanton—drive Jean into such a state of dizzying arousal that he feels like he could come without even touching himself.

It’s because it’s _Marco’s_ voice, the weight of _Marco’s_ legs resting against his shoulders, the smell and warmth of his skin—Jean moans around Marco’s cock and takes him in deeper, and Marco keens.

His hand tightens in Jean’s hair, and Jean knows he’s going to come; he encourages it, tightening his throat and giving a good, hard suck as he tastes come start to fill his mouth.

He moans as he swallows everything Marco has to give, and Marco goes limp as he finishes.

Jean pulls away, carefully settling Marco’s legs back on the bed and kisses up his body before stretching out next to him.

Marco immediately gets close, and to Jean’s surprise, presses up against Jean, panting, wrapping his arms around Jean’s torso and even resting his leg over Jean’s hip.

Jean knows it was an intense orgasm since it was their first shared one, and he holds Marco tightly; he’s seen what happens with Bertl and Reiner, when things reach a certain level of emotional intensity. He murmurs into Marco’s ear how good it felt, stroking his back and kissing his hair, and Marco curls closer to him, still catching his breath.

Jean also realizes in this moment that he’s never had elicited an orgasm from someone like the one Marco just had, or vice versa—emotional and meaningful.

“Um,” Marco finally says after a few minutes of Jean holding him, “sorry I just, uh... in your mouth.”

Jean starts to laugh and rubs his cheek against Marco’s hair affectionately. “I did it on purpose,” he says simply. “I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Marco says breathlessly.

“I’ve never wanted to do that with anyone.”

“Um...” Marco says softly, and Jean realizes he’s nervous. Maybe he said too much and freaked Marco out.

“Yeah?” Jean asks carefully, his voice more serious.

“Is there something I can do for you?” he finally asks shyly.

“You don’t have to,” Jean replies, stroking Marco’s back.

“I want to,” Marco replies immediately, and is seemingly brave enough to rock his hips forward against Jean’s still-very-hard cock.

“Mm,” Jean hums lazily, “that feels good. Can I just... do that against you?”

“Yeah,” Marco replies breathlessly.

Jean slowly pushes Marco onto his back and Marco stares up at him with wide, dark eyes. His forehead is damp with sweat, and he looks totally vulnerable, his lips slightly parted as he watches Jean.

Jean leans forward to kiss him, reveling in the sensation as Marco opens his mouth and their tongues slide together. Finally, they have to break away to breathe, and Marco watches intently as Jean spits into his own hand and slicks up his cock.

“Ready?” he asks, and Marco nods.

He climbs on top and settles his knees around Marco’s hips, pressing down against him tentatively as one of Marco’s hands splay clumsily against Jean’s shoulder blades, clutching tightly. 

To Jean’s surprise, Marco’s other hand slides around to grasp the small of his back and then forcefully pull his hips forward. Jean’s back flexes as he takes a staggered breath, and Marco lets out a quiet cry. Jean starts to pant, making desperate little noises he can’t control as he moves his body, rubbing his cock against Marco’s, craving the friction.

“Fuck,” he gasps, not expecting the feelings rushing through him.

He’s gotten off on frottage before, but it never felt like this.

Their bodies are sliding together, and Jean reaches up to tangle his own fingers in Marco’s hair; he can the way Marco’s legs are tense, his body pressed against Jean’s as close as possible.

Marco is holding onto him tightly, moving with him— _with_ him in every sense of the word—and Jean feels so close to him right then, it’s almost suffocating. He’s never had sex like this before, and when Marco whispers his name, it sends him over the edge.

Jean comes hard. He gasps and lets out a loud moan as he orgasms onto Marco’s stomach; then goes limp, just lying there. Marco hangs on, breathing harshly as Jean finishes, and then strokes Jean’s hair as he relaxes and rests his cheek against Marco’s chest.

“Wow,” Marco whispers after a few beats of silence.

For the first time ever, Jean allows himself to be held; he just rests there, enjoying the afterglow and the way Marco’s fingers start to absently comb through his hair. It feels nice, and he doesn’t want to pull away.

After a few minutes, Jean smiles—he can’t ever remember being this happy—and rolls off Marco to reach for the tissues on the table.

Once they’re in some semblance of cleanliness, they end up tangled up in each other’s limbs, not sure who’s holding who at this point, and Jean is smiling a little.

“God, that was amazing,” he murmurs sleepily, and he feels Marco’s smile, too, as he kisses the back of Jean’s shoulder where Jean has ended up pressed against him.

They fall asleep like that, and when they wake up, Bertl and Reiner have gone out for breakfast and won’t be back until later that afternoon—as per the note taped to the refrigerator—giving them a very good excuse to stay exactly where they are at least a few more hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are appreciated, as is concrit, or any thoughts! Getting feedback is my lifeblood. XD Thank you for reading!


	9. Jean finds a little faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean discovers the meaning of a carved out heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _When you were here before  
>  Couldn't look you in the eye  
> You're just like an angel  
> Your skin makes me cry  
> You float like a feather  
> In a beautiful world  
> I wish I was special  
> You're so fucking special_
> 
> _But I'm a creep  
>  I'm a weirdo  
> What the hell am I doing here?  
> I don't belong here_
> 
> _I don't care if it hurts  
>  I want to have control  
> I want a perfect body  
> I want a perfect soul  
> I want you to notice when I'm not around  
> You're so fucking special  
> I wish I was special_
> 
> -Radiohead, [Creep](https://soundcloud.com/lukajaparidze/radiohead-creep-radio-edit)

_‘Hit me baby, one more time’_

“It’s bad enough that you’re— _oh... mm..._ violating my record player, but there’s no way—oh, _god_ fuck—Marco, that’s not fair!”

_‘Oh, baby, baby, how was I supposed to know’_

Jean is on Marco’s lap, facing him, and Marco looks decidedly impure with his lips swollen from kissing, his eyes half-lidded, and not wearing a stitch except the polo shirt that Jean has decided is his own personal kink.

“You are _not_ fucking me to Britney Spears,” Jean manages to grit out. Much to his amusement—particularly considering their current state—a crimson blush travels right up to Marco’s neck to his cheeks.

He’s gotten used to a lot of things, but Jean talking about sex out loud as applied to the two of them still makes him blush.

Jean adores him for it, and leans forward to take advantage of the upper hand and grind his hips down, rutting against Marco with his knees pressed into the couch.

Marco gasps and his hands slide around to the small of Jean’s back, pulling him closer. Jean is all too happy to let Marco pull him forward and suck at the sensitive part of his neck just below his ear that always makes Marco’s cock twitch and his voice jump an octave in a high-pitched, breathless moan.

“That feels nice,” he murmurs, his hand sliding up Jean’s back to tangle in his hair. “Mm, Jean...”

Britney has been forgotten momentarily, and Jean lets his eyes slip shut, drawing back to inhale deeply. 

“I love the way you smell,” he whispers, pressing a few delicate kisses against Marco’s throat. “Love the way you feel.”

The blush hasn’t diminished, and has only grown more pronounced.

“Um...” Marco stammers, pulling back a little. Jean just stares into his dark eyes, and for once, feels nothing but trust for another person.

“Yeah?” Jean asks, smoothing Marco’s hair back.

“I love all that stuff about you, too,” he says hesitantly, and Jean cocks his head to the side curiously. The horrid single finally reaches its end, and then there’s just the soft bump of the needle as the record keeps turning.

“And...” Marco takes a deep breath, and shuts his eyes, like he’s about to watch a scary part in a horror movie, “I love you.”

Jean blinks twice, and then his eyes widen. Marco literally has his eyes screwed shut, like he’s hoping when he opens them nothing bad will happen.

“I love you, too,” Jean replies softly, and Marco’s eyes pop open. It’s amazing how easy it is to say it.

He reaches out and presses his hand against the back of Jean’s head, pulling him in for a long, slow kiss. It gives Jean the typical rush it always does—the fact that Marco, once he’s past his shyness, is actually aggressive in bed about what he wants—but today it’s particularly intense, when Marco draws away and says it again against Jean’s lips. 

Jean repeats his same answer as he grabs the lube and gives it to Marco. He presses their foreheads together, leaning forward and exhaling hard as he feels Marco’s slick fingers at his entrance. The touch is gentle but eager—as it always is—and then progressively more ambitious as Marco presses a finger in.

By the time they’re both moaning and Jean is riding two of Marco’s fingers, he breathes the words again against Marco’s neck. 

Marco pulls his fingers out slowly, and Jean takes the initiative to push him down onto his back on the couch, straddling him as he stares up at Jean. His eyes are dark with lust and arousal, but the intensity of the love showing plainly in his face is almost overwhelming; and Jean just lets himself be swept away with it.

Jean squeezes more lube into his hand and gives Marco’s cock a few strokes, before positioning himself over Marco’s cock and slowly guiding it into himself. Finally, once his inner thighs are flush up against Marco’s hips, he starts to move.

“Jean,” Marco cries breathlessly as he throws his head back. Jean rolls his hips fluidly, starting slow but then working up to a faster speed, until the couch is squeaking.

Marco is just riding it out, unable to move his hips much since Jean is doing all the work. Jean just stares at him for a moment—his nipples are stiff, his face is flushed, and his mouth is hanging open slightly. He has one hand gripped around Jean’s thigh, and the other twisted in his own hair, as if not knowing what to do with it.

 _“Jeanloveyou...”_ he groans out, his back arching as his grip tightens and he gets ready to come. Jean knows there’s going to be a bruise, and just the thought that gentle, well-mannered Marco Bodt is moved enough to _bruise_ someone is almost enough to make Jean come right then and there.

Jean’s never let anyone come inside him before Marco, but given their arrangement, when they do have anal sex, he loves the feeling of Marco’s cock inside of him when he finally falls over the edge.

Marco orgasms a few seconds later, his mouth falling open as he lets out a loud moan (Marco, much to Jean’s delight, is rather loud), and then relaxes, panting.

Jean slowly rises and lets Marco’s cock slip out of him, and then he finds himself flipped onto his back as Marco switches places with him. He kisses down Jean’s body quickly, nipping a little at the soft skin just above Jean’s hip that he knows will earn little gasps and moans, and then moves to finish Jean off with his mouth.

Jean can now answer Reiner’s question: yes, Marco is a little kinky. Or at least brave and willing to try things with Jean. 

Marco’s oral technique has improved rather quickly—he stopped gagging the second time around—and although Jean never used the word “loving” to describe getting a blowjob, that was pre-Marco.

Marco makes everything loving, even if it’s hard and fast and hot.

Jean comes quickly, already worked up from the thorough fucking he’d received earlier, and Marco chokes a little as he pulls back.

He catches his breath and wipes his mouth, and then meets Jean’s eyes, as if only just realizing he’s being stared at.

He gives Jean a silly, post-orgasmic smile and pulls the polo shirt off in one smooth movement, tossing it onto the floor as he cuddles up next to Jean on the couch.

Unsurprisingly, Marco is also a terminal cuddler; Jean has no problem with this state of affairs.

He rolls onto his side with Jean clutched tightly in his arms, and he sighs happily.

“Love you,” he murmurs again, as if unable to say it enough times to satisfy himself, and kisses Jean’s temple.

It’s been six months. Everything has been amazing—the sex, the relationship, every moment spent together—and for whatever reason that Jean still can’t quite figure out, it only seems to get better. Jean is so happy that he can’t even muster the heart to be worried about anything.

“Love you, too,” Jean whispers, linking their fingers together. “Next time, though,” he murmurs sleepily, curling closer to Marco, “fuck me to The Smiths, okay?”

Marco laughs and kisses Jean’s head.

“Deal.”

= = =

“I love you.”

The rain is falling so hard that Jean can barely even hear Marco’s voice; it sounds like a battering ram on the roof of the car where they’re parked in Marco’s driveway, and they’ve been sitting there for so long that the windows are fogged up.

“Jean, don’t cry...”

“I’m not fucking crying,” Jean chokes, looking away from Marco and wiping his eyes roughly.

“You knew I’d go back eventually,” Marco says softly. Jean knows he’s hurting Marco’s feelings when he shrugs the hand off his shoulder that’s settled there, but he’s in so much pain, he doesn’t even care.

“Sorry,” Jean coughs, shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s fine.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Marco says in a frustrated voice. “I’m going back to school—”

“—and moving back to Sina, and you don’t want to do long distance,” Jean finishes harshly. “Yeah, I heard you the first time.”

“No, you didn’t,” Marco replies, and his voice is calm. Jean knows that tone; he’s about to drop a bomb.

“I want you to come with me.”

Even Jean’s not expecting that, and he wrenches his head around to stare at Marco.

“What?”

Marco looks down at his hands folded in his lap, his mouth a straight line. “I want you come with me,” he repeats more softly.

“Why?” Jean blurts out. It’s possibly the stupidest thing he could ever ask, but as usual, Marco takes it in stride.

He just looks at Jean for a moment, blinks, and then sighs. “Why do you think?”

“I don’t know. Someone to vet your music collection?”

“Because I love you,” Marco says calmly, his gaze steady. “Because I want you with me.”

“What if I said I couldn’t?” Jean asks softly, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. 

“I’d respect your decision,” Marco replies, and now Jean can see he has tears in his eyes, too, “but... I’d still go.”

Jean bites his lip and shakes his head, staring down at the steering wheel. “I can’t just leave my job and my friends.”

Marco drops his eyes, too, and replies softly, “I thought it was worth asking.”

When Jean doesn’t reply, Marco sniffles a little and wipes at his eyes. “I’ll write you every day, Jean.”

Jean just shakes his head and looks away; his throat is closing and he’s on the verge of outright sobbing. Nevertheless, he manages to choke out, “I don’t think we should talk for a while.”

Marco leans over to kiss Jean’s shoulder, and then gets out of the car; when he shuts the door, and Jean watches him leave, hurrying up to his house, he’s never felt so alone in his life as he does at that moment in the cold car.

Jean doesn’t say goodbye. 

= = =

“It was so awesome working with you, Jean!” Sasha enthuses, a big smile on her face.

There’s cake floating around the store, and the only part of the writing that’s still visible is Sasha’s name, the “Good Luck” part having already been eaten.

Jean tries to smile and takes a bite of cake. “Thanks for not fucking anything up.”

“No problem!” Sasha replies, smiling widely. “Trost is cool, but I think out west is really where Connie and I belong. It’s way more chilled out over there.”

“Yeah,” Jean says.

“And Mikasa!” Sasha squeals, throwing her arms around Mikasa who just looks surprised at the sudden outburst of affection. “I’m so glad I got to meet you! Your hair still looks awesome.”

Mikasa smiles a little, too, and nods. “Thanks for everything. Good luck.”

Sasha makes the rounds at the going away party, making sure to tell everyone how much she’ll miss them—eating two more pieces of cake in the process—until the only people left lingering are the three of them. A lot of regulars had stopped by to wish Sasha well—she will be very missed given her friendly attitude and a quirky propensity for doling out candy bracelets with record sales—but now the party is finally winding down.

“Wow, I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll be closing,” she says with wide eyes as she boxes up the remains of the cake. Jean shrugs as he finishes cashing out, and Mikasa nods.

“I hope I trained you okay,” she adds, casting a glance at Mikasa. “Although I guess a shouldn’t worry, given that you’re our number one sales person this month.”

Mikasa nods, a serious look on her face, and she pats Sasha on the shoulder. “I hope you have a good time.”

“Take care of Mr. Mopey Pants here,” Sasha says. Before Jean can open his mouth to let out a string of curses and protests, Sasha holds her hand up. “I get to say whatever I want—it’s my going away party.”

Jean growls at her under his breath, but mutters, “Just this once, Braus.”

Connie shows to pick Sasha up before they’re done locking up, but Jean tells her to go. He even gives her a hug—a large step in the direction of being affable for Jean—and just like that, she’s gone.

Mikasa is always quiet when they close together, and Jean is glad that they hired her. She’s not annoying, she does her job well, and she’s strictly business. Her first love is Jaeger, and Jean has to at least admire her dedication.

“So,” Jean says, for once the talkative one, “you need a ride?”

“No, thanks,” Mikasa replies, throwing some napkins in the garbage. “Don’t you give your other friend a ride home usually, anyway? I think I’m in the opposite direction.”

“Oh, he moved,” Jean replies with shrug. He’s gotten much better at keeping his voice neutral in the past month since Marco left. “You know, whatever.”

“It’s hard when people leave,” Mikasa remarks, and Jean looks up at her in surprise. She usually isn’t very candid with her thoughts—she’s brilliant at her job, quiet, serious, and the type of coworker everyone wants. However, she has a certain quietude about her that Jean doesn’t know what to do with. 

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, shrugging again and rubbing the back of his head. “Kind of sucks.”

“You have to hold onto what you have. Jaeger helped me through a really bad time in my life—that’s why they’re so important to me.” 

Jean is openly staring at her now, and he doesn’t even know what to say.

Mikasa shrugs indifferently. “Anyway, is it true that you’re going to apply for that store manager position they’re creating?”

“Um, I was thinking about it,” Jean replies, relieved to be onto a different subject. “Considering I’m going to be here for the rest of my _life_.”

“If you decide not to,” Mikasa says, “let me know. I like it here, and Levi has some Jaeger connections and might be able to get me a roadie position on one of their tours, but I’m still waiting to see. Either way, I’d apply, but I don’t want to compete with you.”

“I’ll let you know,” Jean says after a moment, sliding the cash from the register in the safe deposit envelope. “Anyway, let me give you a ride home. It’s gross outside.”

Mikasa offers him a little smile. “Thanks.”

= = =

It’s been a while since he’s seen Bertl and Reiner, and he went over for some afternoon fun; it’s also the first time he’s had any sexual interest in anyone since Marco left.

When he knocks on the door, though, Bertl answers it with circles under his eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly, as if surprised. “Sorry, forgot we made plans.”

“Oh,” Jean replies, unsure of what to say, more taken aback by the fatigue showing plainly on Bertl’s face than forgotten plans.

“Reiner’s not feeling great today,” Bertl sighs. “Sorry, I should’ve called you.”

“It’s okay,” Jean says, his eyebrows raised. “No problem.”

“You want a drink?”

“Sure,” Jean agrees.

He follows Bertl into the kitchen and sits down at the table. The hum of the refrigerator sounds loud as it’s open, and then the hiss of the cap as Bertl opens a beer for Jean.

They both sit down at the tiny kitchen table, and Jean grabs one of the coasters stacked neatly at the side for his drink.

Bertl finally sits down across from him, and he looks tired.

“Reiner’s asleep in the bedroom,” he says, wiping his forehead and meeting Jean’s eyes, “so try to be quiet.”

“Is he okay?” Jean asks, cocking his head to the side with a frown.

“Yeah,” Bertl replies simply with a shrug, abruptly changing the subject. “So, have you heard from Marco lately?”

Jean actually chokes on his beer, and the chair squeaks in protest as he coughs. Bertl’s eyes widen, and reaches over to pat Jean on the back.

“Whoa. Uh, sorry?”

Jean hasn’t actually told the two of them everything that happened—just that it didn’t work out, they amicably agreed to remain friends, and then Marco had decided to go back to school.

“Um,” Jean says as he catches his breath, “he writes to me sometimes.”

The truth is that Marco has done exactly what he said he would—he writes Jean a letter every day. Some of the envelopes that arrive are thick, some are almost packages, and some are very light. Jean doesn’t actually know what they contain, because he never opens the envelopes—just throws them into his top dresser drawer. There are exactly 45 there, and there’s probably one or two waiting in his mailbox at home.

He can’t bring himself to read Marco’s letters; it’s just too painful, too raw still, too fresh. 

Bertl raises an eyebrow at him and takes a sip of his beer, not breaking eye contact. Jean forgets how perceptive the more quiet member of the Reiner and Bertl combination can be sometimes.

“Well, whatever. We broke up, right? That’s the end of it,” he concludes with a dismissive shrug.

“You never did go into that,” Bertl says carefully, his calm green eyes finally looking down at the label of his beer bottle. He crosses one long leg over his knee and raises his eyes again to look at Jean unwaveringly.

He doesn’t say anything further or directly ask what happened, because Bertl isn’t the prying type; he doesn’t like it when people pry into his and Reiner’s business, so he treats others how he wants to be treated.

But Jean can tell he wants to ask, so he saves him the trouble. Eventually, Reiner will get it out of him, anyway.

“He asked me to go to Sina with him,” Jean blurts out, clenching his fists in his lap, staring at the floor. The toes of his Vans are scuffed up, and he remembers suddenly running down an empty, wet street in search of his best friend. “And I said no.”

“Are you fucking crazy?”

He looks up in surprise to see that Bertl is sporting an expression which might be described as outraged.

Jean’s mouth opens and nothing comes out; he does it again, and finally manages, “What?”

“Are—you—insane?” Bertl replies again, putting space between each word for added emphasis, his gaze absolutely unflinching and heavy.

“Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do?” Jean explodes. “Leave all my friends and my job?”

“Jean, you have two friends—us—and a dead end job. You’re wasting away here,” Bertl shakes his head. “What do you really have? A good fuck here and there, a record collection, and a really shitty couch.”

“Who the fuck are you? My mother?” Jean growls at Bertl, standing up. He knows, though, that the hurt he feels rising in him has nothing to do with Bertl’s words. Or rather, it has to do with the fact that he knows Bertl’s right; he knows that he’s a coward, that he really wants to be in Sina with Marco, but he’s afraid to leave what he knows.

“Maybe I should be,” Bertl adds, frowning at Jean. His voice is still infuriatingly calm.

“Well, what the hell do you know about me?” Jean demands. He knows he’s pushing a line, and every rational part of his brain is screaming at him to shut the fuck up. 

“I know what it’s like to lose something important,” Bertl says, and to Jean’s shock, his voice cracks.

The most emotion that Bertl’s ever shown Jean is when something makes his temper flare up—usually about the past—and even that’s pretty subtle.

At this moment, he looks like someone just stabbed him in the gut.

“There’s something wrong with Reiner,” he blurts out, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s some sort of memory loss thing. It might just be symptoms of PTSD, or early onset Alzheimer’s. We don’t know yet.”

Jean’s mouth is hanging open, and he shakes his head, sinking back into his chair. “He’s too young for that.”

“That’s what I said,” Bertl whispers, staring down at the table.

Jean doesn’t think; just reaches out across the table and squeezes Bertl’s hand. “I’m really sorry.”

He blinks, and realizes that the last time someone did that for him—a comforting touch, an intuitive knowledge about how to try to extend comfort—was Marco. He just didn’t realize that he learned something in the process.

“Thanks,” Bertl murmurs, but then looks up at Jean again, his eyes blazing. “But do you think I’m going to leave him?”

“Of course not,” Jean says, taken aback.

“Because you have to hold onto who and what you have,” Bertl says, his voice forceful. His hand clenches, and Jean looks at his tense fingers, feeling a pang when he sees it’s the hand Bertl wears his wedding ring on.

Jean doesn’t reply immediately, and then sighs deeply, knowing what he means. “Is there at least a chance it’s just... bad memories?”

“Yes,” Bertl nods, adding hesitantly, “Uh, we had... kind of a fucked up adolescence, so it’s actually really possible and not just blind hope.”

“Yeah,” Jean says softly. “I get it.”

“Call Marco,” Bertl says, shaking his head. “He’s probably ready to jump off a bridge without you.”

“He’s okay,” Jean says, taking a long gulp of his beer. “I ran into his mom the other day at the gas station, and she said he was doing good.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Not really, but I know he’s alive. Um...” Jean cringes. “He’s literally written me a letter every day since he left.”

“Don’t be a fucking moron, Jean. If you ditch him now, you’ll never get him back.”

“I’ll think about it,” Jean says softly, heaving a tired sigh. “Is Reiner going to be awake soon?”

“Yeah, I’m going get his lazy ass up,” Bertl says very quietly, casting his eyes downward. If it was anyone but Bertl, Jean would be sure he was about to cry. Finally, he puts on a neutral expression, and asks, “You want to stay for dinner?”

“Sure,” Jean nods, “but can I pick the music?”

That finally gets a little smile out of Bertl. “Sure. No sad bastard shit, though.”

“I’ve got just the thing. Let me just run out to my car.”

Jean unwraps the Britney Spears record that’s been sitting in his car, ready to be mailed to Marco for weeks.

After dinner, Reiner agrees that Jean is an idiot for letting Marco go when he gets emotional over “Baby One More Time.”

= = =

Jean’s summers at bible camp weren’t completely terrible; the counselors weren’t puritanical overlords who burned non-believers. It was stifling and polarizing, and they had to pray every day and sing songs; but Jean realizes now that half his problems from back then weren’t due to the fact he was in bible camp. 

The environment didn’t help matters, but that’s not why he ended up alone all the time—it’s not what made him fight, or tell people to fuck off, or shove Marco.

Jean has begun to realize that it’s always been _him_ —his problems, his anger, his fears—that have ruined the really important things.

He always thought he was such a realist—you shouldn’t believe in shit you can’t see, you shouldn’t believe in something just because it seems nice or right.

But Jean finally calls bullshit on himself, because he knows now that those are the words of a boy who’s scared and hurt, a boy who wishes he’d apologized when he had the chance, and he’s tired of being a child.

And now, Jean has come looking for something from those memories.

The nature preserve is completely abandoned this time of year, and dead leaves crunch under Jean’s boots. He’s reminded of the previous autumn, and then realizes with a start that it’s already been well over a year since Marco first walked into the record store. 

He passes heavy iron barbecue grills anchored into the ground, charcoal still collected in their basins. They look strangely depressing—the abandoned remnants of some past summer’s day of grilling and socializing.

Then, just beyond that are a set of bunks that Jean hasn’t seen in a decade, but when he gets close enough, all the memories come flooding back.

The feeling of being back at the old summer camp is both surreal and strange. He’s still not sure why he actually came—maybe out of boredom, maybe heartache; maybe both. 

Jean used to spend his days off with Marco. He used to look forward to having spare time that wasn’t filled with only listening to records alone or fucking Reiner and Bertolt. They’ve always provided good company, and he values their friendship, but he can’t hang out with them every second of every day. 

But with Marco, Jean was simply content. He didn’t live in his head with only his music for company, didn’t anger quite as easily. Now, Jean hasn’t been sure what to do with his free time in the month and a half since Marco left.

It was earlier in the day that the notion of taking an hour drive back to their old bible camp—assuredly vacant due to the season—occurred to Jean. At first, he’d laughed at himself for the bizarre idea, but then he’d remembered something important.

He knows exactly where to look as he makes his way into the forest, and when he sees the huge, old oak tree, he’s almost surprised that it’s still there.

The year before Jean had been kicked out, he had a fancy pocket knife with all kinds of gadgets on it that his mother had gotten him for his birthday. He didn’t want to show it to anyone—Jean was always suspicious of other people’s motives—but he did show it to Marco. He’d even let Marco hold it, because Marco was the only person eleven-year-old Jean would let his guard down for.

The last day of camp that year, Jean had suggested that they carve their names into the biggest, oldest tree they could find—and when Jean bends down to look at the base of the tree in front of him, he smiles a little.

The inscription— _“J.K. & M.B. were here – 1987”_—is still there, carved neatly in Marco’s careful strokes. He’d gone so deep that they’re still visible, even eleven years later.

Jean sighs softly, feeling bittersweet, as he kneels down to trace the letters gently with his fingertips. Something catches his attention suddenly, though, and he squints curiously—there’s a strange, indiscernible shape underneath the letters. 

At first, Jean thinks it might just be a knot in the bark. The carving is very old, and the tree’s obviously grown since then. 

As he brings his face closer to get a good look, though, he realizes what it is, and his breath catches.

It’s a heart; a tiny heart, as if begging not to be noticed, but carved just as deeply as the initials.

And suddenly, Jean remembers that moment in full—how they’d heard the dinner bell clang distantly, announcing the last supper of the summer before their parents came to pick them all up, and Jean had grinned at Marco.

“Hey,” he’d said, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’ll race you!”

Marco had grinned in return, the prominent smattering of freckles across his face from a summer of swimming and sun bunching up, and nodded.

Jean was always competitive, but Marco had treated Jean’s competitive nature like a game and ignored all the confrontation that went along with it. And just like that, racing each other or holding their breath underwater, had become fun, rather than a constant, standing challenge.

Jean had expected Marco to be at his heels as he took off into a sprint; but by the time he was halfway to the bunks, he realized that Marco was nowhere to be found.

When Marco had caught up a few minutes later, Jean had teased him about being slow, and Marco had just smiled and shrugged, handing the pocketknife back to Jean.

At the end of that day—even though they saw each other most Sundays throughout the year since their families went to the same church—Marco had given Jean a long, tight hug, refusing to let go until his mother had threatened to leave without him.

And Jean realizes—eleven years after the fact—that in 1987, Marco Bodt secretly drew a heart under their initials when Jean wasn’t looking.

_“I’ve wanted to kiss you... since I was eleven years old.”_

He feels tears prick his eyes as he stares at the heart, and for the second time in his life, Jean finds himself alone in the middle of the forest, crying.

= = =

That evening, Jean can’t resist anymore, and he decides to finally open the mountain of mail from Marco that he hasn’t had the courage to read until now.

He pours himself a glass of whiskey, puts on some old school Radiohead, and grits his teeth as he retrieves the letters from the drawer. Once he’s situated on the floor with the envelopes spread out around him, he arranges them by postmark to read them in order. 

In the first one, Marco is hesitant but warm, telling Jean about what it’s like to settle back in, how there are still some people around that he knows, that the campus looks pretty since it’s fall. It’s short, and Jean carefully sets it face-down in the “read” pile.

The next few are an approximation of the same tone—describing his classes, funny things that happened during the day, little details about his everyday life that Jean would only know about if he was _there_. They’re usually two to three pages, and Jean finds himself laughing out loud at some of Marco’s anecdotes about other students who have horrible taste in music—“people you’d tell to fuck off whether they were ten or twenty”—and silly little observations about how everyone wears polo shirts.

But then, the letters get a little more reflective. 

_Dear Jean,_

_I had a weird day today. It started with rain, which I know you hate—I do, too. I mean, it’s Sina or whatever, but it’d be nice to have some clear weather._

_I had an ethics lecture, and I’ll be honest, it made me feel like I used to. It was weird and afterwards, I couldn’t really muster up the energy to have lunch. I tried to read a book, and that didn’t work. So I put on The Smiths, and somehow, that made me feel a little better._

_Still, I’d really like to know your thoughts on this ethics class. I feel like your logic is better than a professor’s. I’m including the book with this letter. Will you write me and let me know what you think?_

_Marco_

Jean’s has to bite his lip to keep it from wobbling as he holds the book Marco sent—that was one of the thicker packages, though he just thought it was a longer letter—and it’s stamped on the side with the school’s “USED” book section.

He opens the next letter, and it’s similar. And there’s another book, a little thinner this time.

_Dear Jean,_

_Check this one out. I read the entire thing last night, just so I could send it to you. Can you write me to tell me what you think?_

_Marco_

Jean discovers that there are at least ten books in packages, and all of them say that Marco finished the book already.

More important: all of them ask Jean to write.

Fuck.

The last one, from four days before, is short and simple:

_Dear Jean,_

_I guess you didn’t like the books—I’m really sorry if they weren’t your thing._

_Maybe I’ll see you at Christmas if you’re around. But you know, only if you’re free._

_Marco_

By the time he finishes, it’s 2 a.m. 

And all he needs as he runs out the door, besides his car keys and jacket, is a certain record.

= = =

Sina is bigger than Jean first imagined, and obviously affluent. His old Mustang sticks out like a sore thumb, but he doesn’t care, because he’s fixated on one point.

He’s got an envelope perched on the dashboard, and a cup of stale coffee in the drink holder. He’s been driving for four hours straight; and yet, somehow, his mind has become less and less clouded.

As he gets into the city proper, he passes big fancy buildings and the hustle and bustle of an early morning.

He always swore he’d never be a sucker—some coffee-guzzling, yuppie fuck, caught up in the rat race. But now, all he can think of is what Marco does on mornings like these, of what Marco is doing right at this moment, because he’s so close.

And Jean aches for him—the heart carved into that tree feels like a wound, and all he wants to do is find Marco, because that’s where he belongs.

He ends up on a quiet street with lots of big old houses, obviously student accomodations chopped up into lots of smaller apartments.

The slam of the car door sounds deafening in the quiet, leafy street. The trees have already turned bright red and orange, and it’s starting to get cold again.

Jean stuffs the envelope in his jacket pocket, thinking about the creak of a leather jacket, the smell of aftershave in the cold, and the pale illumination of a bus shelter.

The address is 104 Sina Street, and Jean finds it quickly enough. A door has never looked so intimidating as it does now—big and wooden and heavy—but he knocks anyway. The loose board on the porch creaks as he shifts his weight, and then his breath catches as the door opens.

“Um,” he says, looking at the ground and shoving one hand in his pocket as the other holds a paper bag, “I’m looking for Marco Bodt?”

“Oh, yeah!” the blonde girl says with a smile. “He lives on the second floor. Just go on up.”

Jean looks around hesitantly as he walks through the door, and slowly starts to work up his nerve.

It’s all for naught, though, as he hears a familiar voice shout down the stairs, laughing, “Christa, who the heck is here on a Sunday morning at—”

And then Marco’s voice cuts out, because he’s standing on the first landing, staring down at Jean with a shocked expression.

“Marco,” Jean says, resenting how his voice sounds like a whisper, how his throat immediately tightens.

Marco turns away from him. He crosses his arms and hunches into himself, taking two steps away to retreat back onto the landing.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly. His voice isn’t angry, but it also isn’t hurt; it’s a neutral query, cold and unfamiliar, as if Jean is a stranger.

And for the first time, Jean realizes how badly he fucked up.

“I...” before he can muster any kind of explanation, Marco shakes his head. “I think you should go.” Then he retreats back up the stairs, and the girl named Christa looks between them with concern.

“Are you... Jean?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yeah,” he grunts, staring at the floor.

“You’re Marco’s friend?” she asks.

Jean shrugs, but nods nonetheless. 

“Um,” she says softly, casting her eyes upward as the stairs creak, and then a door shuts on the second floor, “can you... make sure he’s okay?”

Jean’s eyes snap up in immediate concern, and he frowns. “Why?”

“He’s been... a little stressed lately,” she says carefully with a sad expression. “He’s so smart, but he’s having a hard time.”

“Oh,” Jean says softly, his hurt immediately diffused, “um, I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

He was going to follow Marco anyway, but now it seems more important than ever.

Jean also knows he’ll follow Marco anywhere at this point, until Marco says he never wants to see him again.

The stairs creak as Jean climbs them, and then there’s another door that he knocks on.

This time, it’s another unfamiliar face.

“Are you Marco’s friend?”

When he nods, the conversation is eerily similar the roommate confides that Marco’s been stressed out.

Finally, after a few reassurances that Jean will try to help, he’s allowed into the apartment, and finds himself at Marco’s bedroom door.

He knocks softly, and to his surprise, the doorknob turns immediately; and there’s Marco, looking at Jean with a closed expression.

Jean fights back the urge to kiss him and never let go, to tell him everything that’s happened in Trost since he left, to talk all about the new records he’s listened to, and to just—

“Jean,” Marco says softly, shaking his head, “I already said I think you should go.”

 _“No,”_ Jean replies, and he doesn’t intend for his voice to come out as a sob.

Marco blinks in surprise, and his face softens. “Jean,” he repeats, shaking his head, reaching out his hand to rest it on Jean’s shoulder.

“Will you at least talk to me?” he whispers, staring at Marco. “Just for five minutes?”

Marco sighs. “All right,” he says. “Five minutes, but that’s it. I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah,” Jean replies, his voice choked, “because of your ethics class or whatever.”

Marco blinks hard, but doesn’t meet Jean’s eyes.

They end up in the living room. It’s only decorated with a thin rug, a milk crate as a coffee table, and a haphazard bookshelf. 

In a way, it reminds Jean of his own apartment—cold, empty, lonely. Regardless of the piles of records, the “shitty couch” as Bertl had put it, and everything else, it’s nothing without Marco there.

And suddenly, Jean doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain his reasons for coming here—why now, why today? But Marco starts the conversation for him, taking two steps back to stare at the floor awkwardly.

“I know you were hurt when I left,” he says softly, “but I thought you’d at least write to me—even just once.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean whispers, not knowing what else to say. 

“I needed you, Jean,” Marco says, shaking his head, his voice slowly becoming thick, “and you weren’t there.”

Jean just looks at him, and he suddenly realizes that he recognizes the t-shirt Marco’s wearing—it’s a Smiths t-shirt, and it’s rumpled, as if Marco’s been sleeping in it. 

It’s Jean’s Smiths t-shirt.

“Marco,” Jean repeats, his bottom lip shaking, “I’m so sorry.” 

“Me too,” Marco replies simply, and turns away. He looks thinner, and Jean realizes how pale he is; and all Jean can think of is how badly he wants to kiss the back of Marco’s neck, bury his face in his hair, and tell him that everything will be okay.

But he can’t do that; because he fucked up, and he might not be able to fix it.

“So, that’s it?” Jean whispers after a short silence, his voice raw, choked with tears. “Just like that?”

“It’s been a rough first semester so far,” Marco replies simply, his voice soft, still not facing Jean.

“Will you tell me about it?” Jean asks, his voice outright pleading. “Please?”

“I already did,” Marco replies, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a few more steps away. “I told you every day about it. I told you every detail, because you weren’t here, and I wanted you to be.” Jean knows Marco’s crying now, and his heart aches. “I wanted you to tell me what you thought of these books I was reading, the stupid people I saw, the terrible music that everyone here listens to.

“All you had to do was respond,” Marco whispers, and his shoulders are shaking now, “just write me once. And you didn’t.

When Jean can’t stand it anymore, and he tries to hug Marco from behind, he’s pushed away gently.

“No,” Marco says simply, gathering his composure and finally turning again to face Jean. “I can’t. You were right the first time, Jean, when you said we shouldn’t talk for a while.”

And with that, Marco shakes his head as he walks out of the room, down the hallway, and leaves Jean standing in the living room with tears running down his face. He angrily wipes them away with the back of his hand, and tries to catch his breath.

He can’t move; he feels frozen to the spot, the foreign environment making him feel dizzy. 

He hears Marco’s bedroom door shut and the doorjamb click into place, and he forces himself to take a deep breath to steady his hands and stop crying.

He focuses on what’s around him, taking it all in; he hadn’t bothered to look closely at first for obvious reasons, but now he does.

There’s a CD player on the bookshelf, and Jean forces his legs to move and walk over as he regains his composure, trying to breathe. Focus on something he knows, at least to make him feel more steady.

It doesn’t help, though, because then he realizes that the empty jewel case right at the edge belongs to a Smiths CD.

And Jean finally makes a leap of faith. Because—fuck it—he’s got nothing left to lose except everything that matters.

He goes in the direction Marco went, making his way down the hallway until he slides down onto the floor to sit in front of Marco’s bedroom door, not even bothering to try and hide the fact that he’s still crying.

“Um,” he starts hoarsely, closing his eyes and pressing his cheek against the door, “I really liked the first book, the second one sucked, and the third one sounded like some propagandist shit. I can tell you what I thought about the rest of them if you want...”

No answer.

He curls up, and forces himself to make his voice loud enough so that Marco can hear him.

“Do you remember when we carved our initials into that tree?” He can’t stop the shuddery sob from coming out, but he keeps talking. “And you drew a heart under our initials? I found it, because I went back to look. I never knew...”

That’s the last thing he can manage to say before he has to bury his face in his hands, fighting for the ability to speak again for a minute; and then he realizes it’s a pointless fight, because there’s nothing left to say.

He forces himself to stand up on shaky legs, and opens the paper bag he’s been toting around since he got into the apartment.

He presses his forehead against the door and kneels down, saying in a shaky voice, “I brought you something, because it’s yours. Here.”

He takes the record out of the bag and slides it under Marco’s door; then pulls himself up, brushes off his jeans, and tries to compose himself.

He blew it, and it’s time to say goodbye; he’s done more than enough to fuck up Marco’s life at this point.

“Marco,” he whispers, but still loud enough so that he knows Marco can hear him. There’s a long pause, until finally, he says in a whispery voice, “I believe in you... and you’re gonna be great.” 

It’s over. It’s really over. And it’s all his fault. 

But at least he can tell Bertl and Reiner that he tried, and he can tell himself he tried to have faith—and as much as it hurts, he does know what it means now to believe in something you can’t see.

He closes his eyes and shoves his hands in his pockets, takes a deep breath, and takes his first step away from Marco—away from everything he loves, and everything he could have had, but was too scared to take.

And then he stops when he hears the door open and a rough voice say, “You are such an asshole.”

Then he really cries—for possibly the first time in his life—when he feels Marco’s arms wrap around him from behind, and Marco’s face pressed against the back of his head.

“That’s your parting gift? Britney Spears? Your most hated relic?”

He turns around and sobs into Marco’s shoulder, and Marco just hangs on tight to him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write to you,” he shudders. “And I’m sorry I didn’t come here with you. I’m sorry for being such a fuck-up and for not having faith in you—in _us._ ”

Marco’s voice is serious and a little sad, when he replies softly, “The part about not coming with me, though...” He shakes his head as he trails off, taking in a breath. “If that’s not what you want, Jean, then no one can blame you for that.” 

“That’s the fucked up part,” Jean whispers, clinging to Marco, “it _is_ what I want.”

“You want to stay?” He can hear the tears in Marco’s voice now.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do you even have a record player in this shit hole?”

Marco gives a weak little laugh, and his grip on Jean tightens. “No.”

“Well, fuck,” Jean sniffles quietly, “I’ll just have to bring mine out here.”

Marco pulls back after a moment, and a few tears track down his cheeks. “Promise?”

Jean reaches up to cup both hands around Marco’s face and then kisses him.

The kiss breaks, and he whispers against Marco’s lips, “I promise.”

= = =

“Jean, you are _not_ making love to me with The Smiths as a soundtrack.”

“Why not?! They’re totally romantic and hot.”

“They’re sad bastard music, to quote Reiner. And—oh _god_ Jean...”

“You like that?”

“You’re not playing fair— _ahh_...”

Jean has Marco pinned to their bed, and he’s grinning as he presses quick, hot little kisses down Marco’s neck.

“Mm,” Marco hums, throwing his head back and arching up against Jean, “that feels perfect.”

There’s a very loud meow, and Jean rolls his eyes. “Go _away_ ,” he grumbles at the cat, motioning at her to get out of their bedroom. “You’re supposed to be low maintenance! Can’t you wait five minutes?”

She meows again, and Jean doesn’t even want to look at Marco; he’s the biggest pushover Jean’s ever met when it comes to animals.

“But she’s hungry,” he says, turning to look at Jean with large, concerned eyes.

Jean groans and presses his forehead against Marco’s neck, shaking his head; Marco’s laughing softly and brings both hands up to rest against Jean’s shoulder blades.

“Thirty seconds,” he says, “and then we can keep going.”

“I’ll do it,” Jean says grumpily. “You’ve been at school all day. Just relax.”

He pulls away from Marco regretfully, and pads out into the kitchen to grab a can of cat food, not caring that he’s not wearing any clothes.

“You know, Britney,” he says, casting a critical gaze at the calico cat waiting patiently next to her bowl, “I’m hungry, too. You know what I’m hungry for?”

_Meow?_

“Marco.”

She mewls again, and Jean sighs in exasperation as he dumps the food into her bowl, and then pets her head affectionately.

“So surly,” Marco says from the doorway, grinning with his arms crossed over his chest, “with a soft center.” His freckles have faded in the winter season, but spring is only a few months away, and Jean can’t wait to see them reappear. He loves Marco’s freckles, just like he loves Marco. 

“Shut up,” Jean mumbles bashfully, but he’s smiling as he pushes Marco back into the bedroom and onto the bed to pick up where they left off.

“Did you turn off The Smiths off?” he asks right in the middle of kissing Marco.

“No, the record ended.”

“Oh,” Jean says, otherwise distracted by the way his tongue smooths along Marco’s neck and collar bones, “okay...”

He fully intends to get up and put the record away, but Marco’s mouth and skin are just too addicting to leave. 

And so the record keeps on spinning, a soft soundtrack of static that sounds like a dream; and Jean hangs onto Marco until the needle wears out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, one last hurrah for comments! I would love to know what you think! If you liked it! It's been fun, bros, and I hope you enjoyed the ride... I'm still going to be posting in my [ALF-verse Companion Piece](http://archiveofourown.org/series/106943) series, both about Reiner and Bertolt, as well as some jeanmarco interludes. ;)
> 
> (ANDYESTHEFOURSOMEISCOMING.) ... Har har.


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